The Winchester Family Rulebook
by Spectral Scribe
Summary: Rule 1: “We do what we do and we shut up about it.” What else might one find in the Winchester Family Rulebook? A collection of events from the boys’ lives that teach them each of the rules. Complete.
1. Rule 1

**THE WINCHESTER FAMILY RULEBOOK**

By Spectral Scribe

**Disclaimer:** I do not own or lay claim to anything Supernatural-related, including Sam, Dean, and John Winchester. Anything you don't recognize is mine; anything you do is not.

**Summary:** Rule #1: "We do what we do and we shut up about it." What else might one find in the Winchester Family Rulebook? A collection of events from the boys' lives that teach them each of the rules. Pre-pilot.

* * *

_Rule One: We do what we do and we shut up about it._

At first, Sam didn't realize that most normal people didn't do target practice in their backyards while their father bellowed the key places in which to shoot a wraith. His brother told him that knowing how to use a .45 in dire situations was an important part of growing up, like puberty… though he still wasn't sure what that was aside from his vague ideas of a demon stripping people of their childhood.

So, of course, what was the point of lying about something so normal?

Dean told him it was like when they snuck extra cookies and then ate them in the closet so that Dad wouldn't find out and punish them. Dad told him it was because other people didn't _understand_, they didn't _get it_, and they would be angry and confused and take it out on Sam for telling the truth. Sam was under the impression that many people were stupid; so he tried twice as hard to be smart, in case not getting 'it' was contagious… and Sam wasn't quite sure what 'it' was, but knew it was important. Still, something just didn't click in his seven-year-old mind.

That is, of course, until the hunt where he learned the importance of Winchester Rule Number One.

The house in Cedar Springs, Utah was quaint and faintly suburban, with a wood-cabin type den that smelled of fresh evergreen. Sam liked it. They'd been living there for over a year, and he hoped that they'd stay there until he graduated elementary school, which he was enjoying way too much for the average second-grader (at least, according to Dean). He even had something here that he hadn't really had back in Kansas – a group of kids to hang out with at school, and sometimes on the weekends if he wasn't busy learning how to bow-hunt or spar with his brother, who was eleven and got to go on hunts with his dad sometimes.

As much as he liked the house, it did get lonely. Especially when Dean and Dad were hunting. He didn't like staying home alone, but whenever he felt scared, he'd go into the den that smelled like evergreens and pretend that he was on a camping trip like normal families, roasting marshmallows over a bonfire. But other times he would simply cower under the covers of his bed and hope that Dean and Dad would get back soon, grinning and triumphant and covered in dirt like always, with guns slung over their shoulders like cowboys in old westerns.

* * *

"Whadda we got this weekend?" Dean – rugged with worn clothes, dirty blonde hair, and mischievous hazel eyes – tossed himself onto a threadbare couch and put his hands behind his head as if he owned the world.

A newspaper rustled as John turned the page. "There's a poltergeist about a half hour's drive from here; I talked to the couple. They left the house two days ago, so we're free to get in there this Saturday and salt the place down."

Dean picked at his shirt and flicked the offending piece of fuzz across the room. "Hey, if it's just a routine poltergeist, why don't we take Sammy along?"

Sam, from his place on the floor in front of an opened book – _A History of Hauntings_, something far too challenging for the likes of a second grader, who should have been looking at Thomas the Tank Engine – perked his head up to look at his father. The latter ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, like he always did when deep in thought. At last, he shook his head.

"No, even a routine poltergeist can get nasty. He's only seven."

"_I_ was seven when you took me to help you with that water wraith," Dean pointed out, moving on to picking at his teeth in a bored sort of way. But Sam could tell that he was far from bored – the way his eyes were lighting up, it was obvious that he was indeed very interested in the conversation.

John frowned. "That was a poor decision. You're coming with, Sam's not, end of discussion. We can pick this up in a few years when he's ready." Crinkle, swish. He turned the next page of the newspaper.

Dean shrugged. "Sorry, Bud. I tried." Sam hoped that his disappointment didn't shine too clearly in his eyes when he nodded, frowning at the prospect of staying home alone again. But Dean, with a grin, hopped off the couch and tackled Sam to the floor, turning his attack into tickles as Sam tried to shove his big brother off through peels of laughter.

Another routine day; another routine hunt ahead.

* * *

"—And Jason said we could go over to his house on Saturday to watch it and eat pizza, so if your dad's okay with it, my mom said she can drive us there," Todd rambled, giving Sam his signature missing-a-front-tooth grin and fidgeting in his Ninja Turtles shirt. Sam frowned as he got settled into his desk, sinking into the hard plastic chair.

"Nah, I can't," he mumbled, knowing that John Winchester would have a fit if his youngest wasn't safely at home while he was out on a hunt, with a ring of salt around him for good measure.

"Why not?" Todd chirped, pulling at the Velcro straps on his sneakers.

Sam sat perfectly still, too glum to think about what Dean always said about the cookies and Dad always said about people not _getting it_. "Because my dad and brother are going on a hunt this weekend, and I have to stay home."

"Hunt? Whadda they hunt? My dad used to hunt deer. Do they hunt deer? Or ducks? Or…" he frowned, seeming to strain himself with the thought of what else people might hunt.

Sam crossed his arms, in full brooding mode. "No, they… they hunt… evil stuff. Ghosts and demons and werewolves and stuff…" he trailed off, biting his lip with everything that had just come out of his mouth. Glancing over at Todd to see his reaction, he chewed absently on his lower lip.

But Todd laughed. "Werewolves? Yeah, right. My dad says that stuff's not real." He had moved on from fidgeting with his Velcro straps to pulling at a loose thread in his jeans.

"Well, your dad doesn't get it," Sam retaliated, half proud of himself for coming up with something to say and half angry that Todd didn't believe him. He wasn't sure if Todd knew what 'it' was, but it seemed, from the look of comprehension and scrutiny on his face, that he had a better idea than Sam.

"Oh yeah? Prove it," he shot back with a daring, missing-a-tooth grin that rounded out the baby fat still present in his cheeks.

"How?"

Todd shrugged, tapping his fingers on his desk. "I dunno. Show me one of those things, a ghost or something. Where are they?"

Sam thought for a moment. "Well, there's this poltergeist my dad and brother are hunting this weekend…"

"Okay, show me that one."

"I can't," Sam replied, distraught and not liking the hole he seemed to be digging himself into.

"Why not?"

"Because… I can't," Sam finished lamely, but the more he thought about it… the more possible it seemed. An idea was already formulating in his brain, taking such a clear shape that it almost frightened him. No, he didn't want to disobey Dad… but if Dad didn't know he was coming along, then he wouldn't get in trouble, just like when Dad didn't know about Dean and him stealing the cookies…

"Good Morning, class."

"Good Morning, Mrs. Jacobson."

Sam leaned over to Todd, ignoring the teacher for a moment. "Okay, I'll do it. Tell your parents you're coming over to my house on Saturday afternoon. Leave the rest up to me."

And, with the prospect of having a friend who _got it_, who _understood_, who he didn't have to lie to, Sam smiled to himself and got out last night's spelling homework.

* * *

"Okay," Sam whispered, leaning into the backseat of the Impala with a large blanket. Todd was already crouched on the floor, beaming with excitement. "All you have to do is hide under this blanket and don't move. I'll be back in a few minutes, and then we have to be quiet all the way there or my dad will find us. Okay?"

Todd nodded enthusiastically.

"And you're not gonna move, right?"

Todd sighed in annoyance. "No, I'm not gonna move. Just gimme the blanket, all right?"

Sam dumped the blanket on top of Todd, proud that it looked merely like a thick, rumpled blanket than a blanket hiding a seven-year-old boy. Closing the door, Sam dashed back into his house and sauntered into the kitchen, where Dean and Dad were checking their supply of weaponry.

Sam stepped through the doorway just as Dean was loading a large bucket of table salt into the green duffle bag. "Oh, hey, Sammy," he greeted.

John looked up as well. "All right, Sam, you know the drill. We'll be leaving in about five minutes. Go upstairs, do the salt, and stay out of trouble."

"Okay," Sam replied brightly. "I'm gonna go upstairs now and read." And with that, he walked – a little more loudly than necessary, to prove his point – up the stairs and rambunctiously closed his bedroom door from the outside. Grinning at his sneakiness, he tiptoed back down the stairs and to the front door, exiting as quietly as he could and hopping into the Impala's backseat with Todd.

"My dad said it'd be about half an hour," he whispered once he was under the blanket with Todd. "Just, whatever you do, don't make any noise and don't move."

Todd nodded, rustling the blanket lightly with his head movement, and went back to fiddling with an old pencil he'd found on the floor of the car.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes into the trip, just when Sam was beginning to think they'd pulled it off and was beginning to relax the tension in his shoulders, Todd gave the loudest sneeze that someone of his stature could possibly give. It whooshed out of his lungs in a gigantic huff, courtesy of the dust he'd inhaled while toying with bits of fuzz on the floor. The car swerved slightly as Sam heard his father give a muffled exclamation, and suddenly the blanket was pulled off of both of them, leaving them sitting guiltily on the car floor with blanket-mussed hair. Sam bit his lip bracingly.

"Sam! What the hell are you doing here?" John cried out, his furious eyes on the road and his white knuckles gripping the steering wheel tightly. Dean bunched up the blanket tightly and chucked it down by his feet, the slight part between his lips betraying his shock.

"I – I –" he stuttered, trying to think of a good explanation. "Todd, he wanted to see a poltergeist, because I told him that you were hunting one this weekend, and he didn't believe me, so he wanted to see it, and I thought we could just peek into the house so he could see it and believe me, and so we snuck into the car, but he said he… didn't believe me…" Sam caught his breath as his voice trailed off, trying to stay calm at the fire his father's eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

"You disobeyed a direct order," John said at last in a low voice, pulling into the driveway of a large townhouse and easing the car into park. He didn't even turn to look at Sam, who was hugging his knees to his chest in the cramped position, when he spoke. "Right now, I have a poltergeist to deal with. But make no mistake, I'll deal with you when we get home." There was a pause, and Dean merely sat straight in his seat, glancing blankly from John to Sam – but Sam could see the nervousness in his eyes. At last, John turned around in his seat and pointed a finger at Sam and Todd, the latter of which was remaining unusually silent. "You two are to stay in the car until we come back, understood? I mean it. Under no circumstances are you to leave this car."

Sam nodded. "Yes, Sir." His dad glanced momentarily at Todd, who was watching him, wide-eyed, before nodding and getting out of the car. Before hopping out himself, Dean turned around in his seat and shot Sam an admiring look.

"I gotta hand it to you, Sam. You've got guts… but Dad is gonna _kill_ you." With a grin that fell somewhere between awed admiration and pitying amusement, Dean pushed open the car door and stepped out, slamming it behind him.

Once Dean and Dad had disappeared into the house, Sam pulled himself up onto the seat carefully, as if moving the wrong way would summon his father's wrath. He barely even noticed the flurry of movement to his right until the door popped open, and he looked up to see Todd standing just outside the open car door, gazing eagerly up at the house.

"Todd, no! What are you, crazy? You heard my dad. He said not to leave the car or we'll be in so much trouble!" Sam cried out, scurrying onto Todd's seat so he was closer to the lunatic boy standing on the driveway.

But Todd merely grinned that missing-a-tooth grin and rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Sam. I just wanna get a closer look. What your dad doesn't know won't hurt him."

Why did this idea keep popping up all of a sudden? It was as if Sam couldn't escape the lies and deceit around him, pressuring him to join in on the fun. He shook his head fervently and scrubbed his hands over his messy brown hair. "No, we have to stay in the car or we'll get in more trouble. You heard what he said. Besides, he found out we were here, didn't he? Nice job of not making any sound, by the way," he added, having learned the art of sarcasm from his older brother.

Todd folded his arms, glanced up at the building, and began plodding up the driveway.

"I mean it, Todd! If you go in there, my dad'll catch you, and you'll get in big trouble! I'm not going in after you!" he shouted from inside the car, his insides squirming as if he had been filled with a writhing pile of worms. "I'm serious, Todd!" His voice grew shriller with every word he said until Todd gave him one last look and vanished through the front door.

Sam stared at the open car door like a one might watch a ticking bomb. His hands were trembling slightly with anxiety, and he was torn between not wanting to get in trouble and wanting to get Todd out of the house. Bad things happened when people disobeyed his dad. He didn't want Todd to get in more trouble than they were already in.

Torn literally in two, feeling as if his very body were ripping at the seams, Sam groaned and stepped out of the car, carefully closing the door behind him and sneaking quietly up the driveway. He felt that his shoes were two guns going off every time he stepped, and he waited for his dad to appear with those bloodhound ears of his and grab Sam by the collar. But at last he reached the front door, and when nobody appeared to yell at him, he slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind him.

The front hall of the house was eerily silent; the beige walls, covered in fancy paintings of mountains and rivers, loomed up on either side of him into the high, vaulted ceiling, which threatened to swallow the little boy up. Sam took a breath, focusing his mind by thinking of the ways to destroy a poltergeist, and moved haltingly to the first doorway on his right. Pulling it open, he spotted coats hanging from a pole; a closet. His tongue longed to call out for Todd so that he knew where his friend was, but at the same time he didn't want to give himself away. Oh, he had certainly gotten himself into a sticky mess this time.

Sam's heart leapt into his throat when he heard footsteps upstairs, and he quickly tied them to his father and brother, familiar with the heavy footsteps and the quick, lighter ones. Expelling his breath, he moved quietly to the next doorway, on his left. Pulling it open, he found the living room – complete with two leather sofas, a television set, a floating coffee table, and Todd.

Todd, pinned to the far wall.

Todd, being choked by the edge of the coffee table, which was rammed into his neck and had him dangling three feet off the floor.

Todd, squirming and kicking his legs feebly, his face red and scrunched up in an effort to draw in oxygen.

Sam felt his feet go numb. He tried running over to his friend, but his legs were unable to move. His throat, which tried to call out, had seized up and clogged itself shut, feeling tighter than a pipe in desperate need of Drain-o.

And with a swift, decisive movement, the coffee table spun around and sent Todd hurling through the air… slamming into the television set, which exploded in a burst of shattering glass and fireworks… crumpling to the floor with streaks of blood running down his face…

Sam screamed.

He heard, but didn't see, heavy footsteps flying down the stairs and into the room. He heard voices, but his eyes were filled with the blurred image of still, unmoving, un-fidgeting Todd. There was a scuffle around him – salt thrown through the air like powdery snow during winter play – and, at last, the inanimate objects in the room had stopped moving, and he felt two strong arms grab him by the shoulders as his father's face loomed into view.

"Sammy, what are you doing in here?" The voice was forceful and clearly angry, but also remorseful and gruff with concern.

"T-T-Todd… came in h-here… he w-wanted to see…" Sam sputtered through the tears that he didn't want to let spill, standing stock-still with his arms pinned to his sides. The hands let go of him and moved away, towards the immobile boy on the floor.

"He's all right; he's breathing. Looks like he's just pretty cut up."

A much smaller hand than before grabbed the back of Sam's neck, which was the closest to a hug he was going to receive. Dean bent down in front of him, his hazel eyes wide with worry and guilt; and when he murmured quietly, "Sorry, Sammy," Sam didn't know what he had to be sorry about. It was all his fault, Sam's fault. He had told Todd something he shouldn't have, he had dragged him here, he had gotten his best friend hurt. He should never have let slip The Family Secret, never should have told him the truth. He should have lied like Dean and Dad wanted him to. But lying had gotten him into this mess. It was a lose-lose situation, and he hated it.

John Winchester carried the unconscious Todd out to the car, along with the green duffel bag; Dean led Sam outside by the back of his neck, down the driveway, and into the front seat. Sam watched, without really seeing, as Dean hopped into the back with Todd, grimacing slightly at the sight of the boy.

"Sammy?"

And then Sam burst into tears, burying his face in his hands and leaning forward in his seat, his breath hitching horribly as he sobbed. He wanted a hug, but he received no comfort. His father put the car into reverse, and then pulled away from the house, his dad and Dean talking in low voices while Sam tuned them out, quieting his breath until his tears had become silent in his burning eyes.

They arrived at Todd's house a little under half an hour later, and Sam watched helplessly as Dean hoisted the scrawny boy onto his shoulder and hurried to the front door. After setting him down carefully, he knocked on the door and sprinted back to the car, hopping in the back just as John pulled away down the street. Sam leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and watched as Todd's mom opened the door, her face contorting in horror. He bit his lip as more tears ran down his face and tried to lean further into the glass as they turned a corner, the house vanishing from sight.

"All right, once we get home, pack up everything you've got. We're leaving as soon as possible, before anything can get pinned on us," John ordered firmly.

Sam turned his head slightly, his cheek still pressed against the cool, smooth glass. "Dad?" he murmured quietly.

"No, Sam. We can't stay. I'm sorry about what happened to Todd, but he'll be all right. His parents will fix him up fine. As for you… what have you learned from this?"

Sam thought for a moment, his tears drying on his cheeks and making the skin under the wet streaks tight. Then, in a small voice – "Don't tell people about hunting."

John nodded in affirmation. "That's right, Sam. We do what we do – and we shut up about it. Do you understand?"

Sam did.


	2. Rule 2

_Rule Two: Shoot first, ask questions later._

"Okay, Sam. You're in the middle of the woods. You have one silver bullet left in your gun. The werewolf comes charging at you – what do you do?"

Dean leaned back, letting the grass tickle the back of his neck as he laced his fingers behind his head. The sky above him shone brilliantly blue, with only a few puffy white clouds to mar its otherwise flawless surface. He felt warm and at peace in the late-spring Texas afternoon. Really, thinking back on it, Texas was quite a smart choice – and he had to give himself credit there, as he'd suggested it in the first place. Wherever you happened to rent out a house in the county they'd come to, there was a spacious backyard that came with. Plus, everyone else in town had a gun, too. Imagine that.

Rolling his head to the side, Dean glanced over at his kid brother, an awkward nine-year-old with scruffy, too-long chocolate hair and an already clever, too-smart brain, if you asked him.

"What do you mean, what do I do?" The nine-year-old asked, his frown and furrowed eyebrows conveying naïve confusion. Dean smirked as he turned his eyes over to his dad, who was already wearing something of an exasperated expression on his face.

"I mean, what do you do? A werewolf is coming at you, you have one shot left. What do you do?" John enunciated from his place several yards from his youngest, who was standing in front of the bundle of hay meant to be a werewolf with a gun dangling loosely from his right hand.

"Well, what are the circumstances?"

"The _what_?"

Dean had to hand it to him; Sam certainly was precocious. Even at thirteen, Dean didn't come up with the kind of things Sam did. And he was all right with that. In fact, in this particular situation, he was downright amused. He could see the train wreck waiting to happen, but he was enjoying himself too much to turn on those flashing light things.

Sam scratched his unkempt hair with his free hand. "I mean, who's the werewolf? Is it some mean old guy or a little girl? Where are you and Dean? Do you two have guns? Is the werewolf going to attack me or the rabbit behind me?"

Unable to help himself, Dean let out a loud, bark-like hoot of laughter, quickly clamping his lips shut when he saw the infuriated look on his father's face. He looked back over at Sam from where he was laying on the grass of the huge backyard to see if the boy had realized how badly he was annoying their father. From the innocent shine in his eyes, it was clear that he either hadn't or was far too clever to let it show.

"Come on, Sam, focus here. After that thing in your closet three weeks ago, I expected you to be more worried about your poor aim and inability to make quick decisions in these kinds of circumstances," John reprimanded firmly, striding over to the bundle of hay and giving it a kick for good measure. "Now," he continued in a voice of forced calm. "There is a werewolf coming at you… yes, you, not the rabbit behind you. Dean and I are nearby, but we have no guns. And it doesn't matter who the werewolf is; it's a werewolf, and you need to kill it before it kills you. Now… what do you do?"

Dean propped himself up on his elbows for a better view of Sam and the hay. There were other things he should be doing about now – like homework, or getting dinner ready, or even cleaning up the mess of salt in Sammy's room that still hadn't been removed from several weeks ago. But, sitting there watching Sam, whether purposely or not, bug the crap out of his father was too entertaining to pass up.

"Well…" Sam seemed to think for a moment, tightening his grip on the gun but still not raising it. "Then I'd have to figure out if I should shoot it in the head or the heart. What works best? Or I could shoot it in the paw, so that it's just incapacitated until it's a human again."

The urge to laugh was overpowered by how utterly floored Dean was. Incapacitated? Where did his brother get his vocabulary from? Still, he grinned and looked over at his dad to see the effect of that comment.

John scrubbed two hands over his face and looked as though he were trying to resist the urge to strangle his son. "By the time you ask yourself those questions, the werewolf will have eaten Dean and be working on me for seconds."

_Ouch_. Dean was sure that would get to him… yet not even the idea of wolf-bait brother seemed to faze the kid. Dean didn't know whether to be proud or offended.

"I thought you said it was going to attack _me_?"

"Sam!" John shouted in a no-nonsense voice. Dean abruptly tensed from reflex, his eyes darting over to Sam and hoping that the kid would cut the crap before their dad went berserk with frustration.

"Sorry… but I don't know which is better. The head or the heart?"

John let out a long breath through clenched teeth. Dean winced with the knowledge that the tactic was being used because of Sam. When their dad didn't answer, Dean spoke up from where he lay. "The heart, Sammy. For werewolves, it's always the heart. Head for shapeshifters."

Dean glanced over at his father, who was still taking in deep breaths and letting them out slowly. Well, it sucked for him that he was a man of little patience, but what did he expect when teaching a nine-year-old how to kill every evil beast out there? Sometimes, Dean had no sympathy for his father. He loved the man, and he would follow him over a cliff, but… sometimes it was hard to empathize with him.

"Okay," Sam replied in a small voice, clearly having finally gotten the hint that he was being obnoxious. He held up the gun in front of his face, aiming for the stack of hay thirty feet from where he stood. But after a pause, he hesitantly lowered the gun again, looking around at his dad. "Um… How do I know," he began, motioning with the gun towards the haystack, "where the heart is?"

With a groan of frustration, John turned around and stormed off into the house, slamming the door shut behind him. Sam turned meekly to Dean, who was still lying on the grass, half-propped up by his elbows. The confused, hurt look on his little brother's innocent face stabbed him in the heart, and he slowly rolled over and stood up to walk over and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Why does Dad have to be like that?" Sam asked finally. Dean didn't ask what he meant by that; he already knew.

He let out a breath. "Well… I guess because he wants you to be a good hunter, and good hunters can't waste all their time asking questions if something's about to come eat them."

Dean's eyes searched his little brother's face for some sort of comprehension, but the latter just frowned. "Why can't he just tell me what to do, then?"

Hmm, that was a tougher one. Taking his hand off Sam's shoulder, he crossed his arms. "I think it's because he wants you to figure stuff out for yourself." He turned his gaze off to the stack of hay, lit up by the afternoon sun, and motioned towards it with a slight nod of his head. "When you've got to make a quick decision during times like that, you can't be looking around for help. You've just got to make a choice and go with it. And, when that happens, sometimes you just gotta shoot first, ask questions later. Know what I mean?"

Sam's frown slowly rose into a thin line of determination, and Dean watched with a burst of warm pride as his little brother's eyes lit up with fierce understanding. Sam nodded slowly, raised his right arm, and shot the gun. When the bullet buried itself into the very center of the haystack, sending fuzzy, golden bits of hay exploding into the air, Dean beamed widely and patted Sam roughly on the back. "Nice one! See, you've got good aim after all. Hey, Dad!" he shouted, turning his head in the direction of the house. "Come see what Sam did!"

As the door opened and their father emerged, Dean sighed and took a step back, imitating his father in rubbing his hand over his chin. It was tough work, being a thirteen-year-old and trying to teach his kid brother what his father wouldn't or couldn't. He only hoped he was teaching him the right things.

"Good shot, Sammy; you sure got the target. Now I won't expect any less of you from now on, you hear?" John announced with a firmly proud smile.

"Yes, Sir."

Dean patted his little brother on the back again. "So, Sam, what should you do if a werewolf is coming to attack you?"

As Sam's eyes turned up to his, Dean winked and smirked, knowing that the kid would get the message. With a smile, Sam turned back to their dad.

"Shoot first, ask questions later?"

John chuckled dryly, and Dean could see the uncertainty etched in Sam's face for a brief moment. But then their dad leaned over and ruffled Sam's disheveled hair with one hand.

"Well, at the very least, it's good that you listen to your big brother."


	3. Rule 3

_Rule Three: Rock salt and table salt are virtually interchangeable._

The vomit-inducing odor of greasy, processed meat hung thickly in the air, punctuated only by the acrid scent of a three-hundred-pound man's sweat as he moved up in the line. Sam had the insistent urge to plug his nose and make a mad dash for the exit, but returning to the savages back "home" empty-handed would only induce yelling and push-ups. Neither of which he particularly wanted to face at this moment.

"Next," called a woman with a faintly Mexican accent, and as Sam took one step forward – big enough to move, small enough not to press his nose into the sweaty sumo-wrestler's backside – he wondered vaguely why McDonald's was packed like a can of sardines when the food lacked anything resembling quality. But his eyes fell upon the dollar menu, the Winchester family's favorite thing next to shooting stuff, and he realized that cheapness overcame the need for quality. At least, it did when a family's income came from poker games and pool hustling, with the occasional credit card scam thrown in for kicks.

At the tender age of eleven, Sam was already more independent than many kids several years older than him… not that his dad or Dean ever seemed to give him much credit (well, mostly just Dean). He had been quite shocked when his dad shoved a wad of bills in his face and told him to run to the McDonald's across the street from their apartment in upstate Wisconsin. Though the task was trivial, the mere fact that Sam was sent for food, with no supervision, right in the area of what might turn out to be a big hunt, gave him a surge of independence from the protection (and sometimes overprotection) of Dean.

At last, Sam moved up to the counter and placed his order with the bored-looking woman up front. She gave him a toothy smile – no doubt thinking how adorable little Sammy was, which made him want to hurl – and punched some keys on her cash register. Handing over the money, Sam stepped back for a moment until the food was ready before picking it up in the grease-stained paper bag and heading for the exit.

Sure, there were times when his dad would let Sam do things himself, like loading guns and cleaning knives and spewing out a needed Latin phrase after hours of studying. But really, every time Dean was around, it seemed like Sam was the one standing around playing it safe. And it was starting to grate on his nerves. For instance, before leaving for the burgers, Dean had called out to his little brother, "Stay out of alleys and deserted areas." Seriously, Sam was going out for food… where was he going to find a deserted, abandoned, haunted area where he'd run into Marietta Stone, the woman who'd been butchered to death?

As he strode confidently forward, across the empty street, greasy bag held loosely in his hand, Sam found himself stopping before he got around the block to where the apartment was… for, apparently, there was a shortcut.

"Uh-oh, Dean. An alley," Sam whispered to himself in mock terror. Now, the thing about Sam was that he had seen way too many things in his short life, things that had horrified him down to his very core… but somehow – in the calming orange glow of the sunset, having been trusted to go on a fast-food run alone – his brain forgot all of that in favor of the more cocky, devil-may-care, hit-me-with-your-best-shot approach to life that usually belonged to Dean. And, thinking about all the things he'd faced and beaten, he became all the cockier; it was this, perhaps, that provoked him to begin sauntering down the dimly-lit alleyway.

Quick as a flashlight blinking out due to a dead battery, a wisp of gray light flashed through the alley and vanished into the shadows, momentarily halting Sam in his tracks. _Spirit_, a voice whispered in the back of his head, and he mentally shushed the thought away. It could have been anything. Stray cat, raccoon, trick of the light… uh… random mist…?

Giving his head a tiny, gentle shake, Sam began moving forward – but once again stopped dead in his tracks at the faintly glowing human silhouette that floated quickly through the alley before, once again, disappearing into the shadows. It left behind a faint but unmistakable scent of sulfur.

Heart hammering against his chest, Sam glanced behind him, wondering if he could backtrack now… but he was already halfway through the alley, and it would be quicker if he just went straight, and oh, Dean would call him a coward if he saw him now (while simultaneously trying to baby him and shield him with a layer of salt). Salt! Oh, what an idiot he'd been. If only he'd brought along some rock salt, then he would have at least been armed…

Flash. Light, shaped to the willowy form of a woman in a long gray dress with waving, brown curls of hair and slender arms. Sam found that his feet had somehow gotten glued to the ground, and the woman – presumably, Miss Marietta – was drifting closer, an exuberant gleam in her beady eyes and a crooked sneer on her lips.

An ethereal, dreamy voice full of unrestrained sadism: "You've been a bad boy, Jeremy."

Sam didn't know which unsettled him more: the long, shining, silver knife dangling precariously from her transparent grip, or his dad and Dean's previous conversation about her…

"_Marietta Stone… says here, ten years ago, she was murdered – slashed to pieces by her seventeen-year-old son," Dean commented, his eyes dark and deep, like two fathomless wells._

"_Got a name?" Dad half-questioned, half-ordered, as he bent down in front of the old newspaper Dean was paging through._

"_Uh… yeah, here it is," Dean said at last, his finger finding the spot. "Jeremy."_

"_Well," Dad sighed, standing up straight and folding his arms, "looks like we've got an avenger on our hands – target, young men."_

As the woman drifted closer still, seeming to enjoy taunting him, Sam regained movement in his feet and stumbled backwards, the greasy paper bag slipping from his grip and smacking onto the gravel. As Sam tripped over himself and landed on his back, he quickly found himself unable to pick whether to look at the murderous ghost or the scarlet ketchup which had splattered all over the bag.

"You've been a bad boy, Jeremy," she repeated, her voice slick like bloody intestines. Then, without any hint of a playful smirk – "It's time you were punished."

As she raised the butcher's knife in preparation of zooming forward and hacking Sam to tiny pieces, the eleven-year-old did the first thing that came to mind: he reached into the greasy, ketchup-y bag, yanked out the complementary plastic knife (which he always wondered about, burgers being finger-food), and hurled it as hard as he could in her direction.

It was comical, really: a homicidal spirit with a butcher's knife versus a young boy wielding a dinky little plastic one.

The pathetic excuse for a weapon passed easily through her – in fact, it stopped her from attacking right away simply by causing an amused chuckle to escape her lips. Sam reached into the bag again, his hand slippery with ketchup, and grasped an aluminum-wrapped burger. Just as Marietta looked prepared to strike, he chucked the burger at her, knowing the folly of his actions but praying that, somehow, he'd buy himself enough time to get out of there. The burger made a clean arc through the air, flying through Marietta – and leaving a sizzling hole in her chest.

What?

Sam's eyes fell upon the burger, lying behind the hissing spirit. Smashed onto the tinfoil wrapper was a crushed bit of fried potato, something that had probably gotten crushed against the burger in his mad haste of grabbing it.

It was a french-fry.

Everyone who was anyone knew how enthusiastically McDonald's salted their fries… but would that really cause Marietta such pain? After all, the Winchesters usually used rock salt, which was ideal for throwing large chunks at close range (and, Sam would later discover, quite ideal for loading in shotguns when they were aimed at ghosts, but not quite so ideal when aimed at brothers)… but would the measly grains of average, everyday sodium chloride clutching the fried edges of fast food so easily repel a spirit?

Well, there was no time to ponder, for Marietta was once again advancing on Sam – only now with a truly infuriated look on her face. She swung the knife up over her head, prepared to bring it down on Sam with a fatal blow –

But he grabbed a handful of french-fries and hurled them with all his might up into her face.

Good old NaCl.

Marietta gave an unearthly wail as the offending fries passed through her transparent form. Clutching her face in agony, she dropped the knife with a clatter, whirled in a circle, and vanished.

Breathing hard, Sam sat up slowly, wary of the silence and stillness. When he decided that he was, indeed, alone, he pushed himself to his feet and tried to wipe the ketchup off on his pants. Grabbing what remained in the greasy, dyed-scarlet paper bag, he ran all the way to the apartment.

Slamming the door open, Sam hurled himself inside – clearly to the shock of both his dad and Dean, who were sitting in their respective chairs with their eyes trained on the youngest Winchester after his dramatic entrance. He could see the questions in their eyes, and without any exposition, announced, "I just had an encounter with our new friend."

Dean leapt from his chair as if he'd been electrocuted, and his dad asked, "Marietta Stone?"

As Sam nodded, his fifteen-year-old brother grabbed his head roughly, checking for injury. Sam wriggled out of his grasp, annoyed, and tossed the ruined paper bag onto the nearby table.

"You okay?" Dean asked, looking ready to grab Sam's head again, but the younger merely grinned.

"No, actually she hacked me up and sold my meat to McDonald's," he retaliated. When he saw his brother's gaze resting on his red-smeared pants, he nodded in understanding. "Ketchup."

Dean visibly relaxed and clapped his hand on Sam's back. "So, what happened?"

"Well, she was coming at me, and then…" he trailed off, frowning. At his father's and Dean's imploring looks, he added lamely, "and then I got rid of her. See, here's the thing," he continued, becoming more confident by the minute. "It turns out, regular salt works just as good as rock salt when you want to ward off a spirit. And it's a lot easier and less conspicuous to carry around, too." Grinning proudly at his discovery, Sam looked up to see what his dad would say.

But his dad and Dean were both smirking, apparently quite amused with themselves. "What, you didn't think it would?" Dean asked at last.

Sam stared at him, confused.

Dean continued. "C'mon, Sam… what do you think we make salt circles with?"

It was a moment before Sam realized he was biting his lip at his own mistake… of course, how could he have been so stupid? Still, clinging onto a shred of hope that he had still thought of something good, he glanced up at his dad for confirmation that his confusion was justified.

John Winchester shook his head gently, and with a grin, replied, "Dean's right. Rock salt and table salt are virtually interchangeable."

Sam mentally logged that away as he trudged over to the table and plopped down. He could feel, more than see, the smug, I-know-more-than-you-do smirk on his brother's face as the older boy reached into the paper bag on the table, pulling out the contents. Still sifting through the effects of table salt versus rock salt in his mind, Sam watched idly as Dean sat down at the other end of the table and stared into his hand for a moment. His indignant exclamation brought a triumphant smile to Sam's face.

"Dude, where are my fries?"


	4. Rule 4

**A/N:** I was having severe writer's block with this chapter, so if it's not up to par… well, that's why. Constructive crit is always welcomed; I'd especially like to know if I captured a little bit of why Dean is the way he is through this chapter's rule. Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to read this so far. Also, I'd like to just make a note that I have 10 chapters/rules planned for this (and possibly some sort of epilogue/summation), so in case anyone was wondering how long this randomness would continue… that's how long. Enough with my rambling.

* * *

_Rule Four: Fifty push-ups a day keeps the digging cramps at bay._

White, hot, searing pain sliced through his chest, setting it on fire. But that was nothing compared to the burning sensation spreading throughout his arms with every shovelful of dirt he heaved up over his shoulder. Sucking another breath into his thirsty lungs, he jammed the metal spade back into the dirt, pulled his aching arms back up, and swung it out of the hole.

"Found it yet, Sammy?" he called breathlessly over his shoulder as another large clump of dirt was heaved from the deepening hole. A quick glance at his twelve-year-old baby brother, sitting beneath a leafy tree with a book propped up in his lap, assured him that Sam was still looking.

"Not yet," was the reply before Sam turned those wide puppy-dog eyes onto Dean and asked, "Do you want any help?"

Despite the ache in his arms, Dean laughed heartily. "You wouldn't last ten minutes. Besides, I need you to find that spell so we can get that bitch back here, burn the knife, burn the bones, and be done with this." With that, he went back to digging, pausing briefly to wipe his sweaty, grimy forehead on the sleeve of his filthy, ragged shirt; he wasn't sure the action did much of anything to either his shirt or his face except spread the dirt around.

There was a moment of silence; the desolate cemetery, lit only by the light of the crescent moon, echoed faintly with the sound of Dean's huffing and the quiet swish of dirt particles landing atop one another. Then, as if the quietude were too much, Sam whispered, "I wish Dad was here."

Swish, plop. More dirt. "Me too, Sammy. I could use another pair of arms."

But, as it were, the great and all-powerful John Winchester was nowhere in sight. He was, in fact, lying unconscious in the car, which was parked at the edge of the cemetery behind a clump of trees. As the three of them had been arriving at the cemetery to burn Marietta's bones—once and for all—the bitch herself had shown up. Luckily, Dean had managed to catch her off guard with some well-placed rock salt, but not before she'd slammed John against the ground. The result was a father who was out cold, two worried sons, and a temporarily vanished spirit. Having no other ideas, they'd dragged their dad into the car and hurried into the cemetery to find her grave. Dean obligingly took over his father's digging duties while Sam searched for a spell that would summon her up—seeing as their dad had told them they would need to burn her knife, too.

"It'll be nice when this is all over," Dean muttered into the hole, not caring of Sam heard him or not. But he saw his little brother look up at his rambling—the first sign of exhaustion in Dean Winchester. "It's taken, what? Almost a year to find this bitch's grave? I mean granted, we did a couple other jobs here and there, but this hunt has taken way too long. She attacked you in that alley, what? Ten months ago? Bitch needs to burn in hell."

The strain in his arms intensified as he felt the muscles cramping up, unable to take any more exertion. Dean heaved another load of dirt onto the pile behind him, on the verge of letting his arms drop in utter exhaustion and call it quits. "I'm sick of seeing people die because of that damn knife of hers. Three in the last month…" He let gravity pull the shovel downward… "And that's not even counting all those—" …and the tip collided with something hard and smooth.

Relief washed over him like a cool waterfall, reinvigorating his protesting muscles with enough strength to toss the shovel onto the ground and kneel down on the coffin. "I got it!" After several minutes of pulling and pushing with the metal tip of the shovel, Dean managed to pry open the lid to the coffin. As the stench of death was released from the airtight space, Dean swiveled his head around to gag against the side of his dirt hole.

Marietta's skeleton was unevenly clad in a mixture of rotting flesh and tattered clothing, her stiffened form a morbidly fascinating patchwork quilt right out of something similar to _The Silence of the Lambs_. Though he wanted to look away, Dean's pupils had fixed themselves unflinchingly upon the decomposing, mangled body in the coffin.

"Dean, I think I found the spell." Sam's voice—still full of infectious innocence—broke Dean from his trance. His arm muscles screamed as he hauled himself out of the hole, panting and dirty and sweating. Sam was still sitting serenely with his back pressed against the tree, his eyes trained down on the book in his hands. Snatching up the salt, Dean made sure to cover every inch of Ol' Smelly before dampening the salty remains with copious amounts of gasoline.

Dean took in a breath and released it slowly as he picked up the matchbook. "You ready to do this?"

His little brother glanced up and nodded resolutely. "We'll summon her back, get the knife, and burn it… and that'll be it, right?"

"Yeah. That'll be it." Swiping the match head swiftly against the side of the box, Dean watched, with the same morbid fascination that had held his gaze on Marietta, as the match exploded in a small burst of brilliant fire. Dropping it over the side of the hole, a grim satisfaction overcame him as the bones lit up and smoldered. "See ya, Bitch."

Tearing his eyes from the flaming body, he looked back to see Sam standing up now, the book held up so that the words showed more clearly in the light of the macabre bonfire they had created. Dean smirked and wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans.

"All right, Sammy. Work your magic."

* * *

Every inch of his arms and chest ached with every movement, as if knives were pressing into his muscles, tearing slowly through the fleshy material. It was difficult work, stopping himself from cringing as he pushed open the front door and stepped into the crappy little apartment that the Winchesters called home. His backpack slipped from his shoulder, eliciting a small groan, and Dean collapsed into the squashy sofa with a sigh.

"Teachers on your case again?" came the welcome voice of John Winchester, who had a nasty bump on the back of his head from the previous night, but appeared otherwise unharmed.

Dean grimaced. "Nah, teachers were all right."

"Good. Then I need you in Sam's room in ten. The kid needs a sparring lesson, and you've got to be his opponent," John mandated.

"What? Why me?" Dean burst out, not moving from his spot on the couch.

"Because you're closer to his size than I am. And next time I give you an order, I don't want you questioning me. Understood?" It wasn't said with more force than needed, but John's steely, firm voice conveyed closure on the matter. Still, Dean knew that he wouldn't be able to spar with arms that felt like lead.

"But—"

"Understood?"

Dean leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, knowing he could do nothing but comply. How did Sam do it? Sam always seemed able to argue with their father without bringing serious harm to himself. How did he manage that?

After a breath, Dean opened his eyes. "Don't you think we should—I mean, we just finished a major hunt last night. Can't we just take it easy for a while?"

The look on John's face gave Dean his answer immediately. His eyes were narrowed slightly and his mouth was set in a line, giving him the calculating look of someone scrutinizing another's work. "You look tired, Dean. You know what'll wake you right up? A little sparring. Why don't you warm yourself up… make it, say, twenty."

Anger fueled his outburst. "Twenty? Twenty push-ups? Are you kidding me?" John's face remained impassive, and Dean couldn't help himself: he scoffed loudly, raising his hands slightly and dropping them with a slap onto his legs. "I dug up an entire grave by myself last night—and today, during gym, my teacher made us do twenty push-ups. I can barely lift my arms."

The side of John's face quirked up in a classic Winchester smirk, and Dean instantly wished he could take back what he said. "Twenty, you said? Forget what I said, then, and make it thirty. Fifty's a nice, solid number." After a beat, he nodded towards the floor. "Get to it."

Dean continued to sit there, indignant and stupefied. "Dad, my arms are cramped up so bad I can barely lift a pencil off the floor, let alone my own body."

"Well, you know what they say," John replied, rubbing a hand over the stubble lining his chin. "Fifty push-ups a day keeps the digging cramps at bay."

"Who says that? The Ghostbusters manual?" Dean grumbled as he grudgingly dropped to the floor with the knowledge that he was fighting a losing battle. Lifting himself onto his arms, he felt them shaking to an embarrassing degree as fire shot up and down his muscles. The first few push-ups were excruciating; the next had him breathing heavily. By the time he reached thirty—he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there, himself—he felt ready to take a chainsaw to his arms simply to rid himself of the sore, useless limbs.

"You see, Dean," John began as soon as his eldest had pushed himself into a sitting position, breathing hard as perspiration beaded on his forehead. "If you do fifty push-ups every day, next time you dig up a grave, your arms won't hurt so bad."

It didn't make much sense to Dean. "Easy for you to say."

John shook his head, a frown forming on his face. "No, not easy. I've dug up more graves than a necrophiliac. Endurance is key. If you push yourself to your farthest limits on a daily basis, you'll become something more. That's exactly what's needed in a hunter. I'll see you in Sam's room in five."

And with that, John turned and left the room. Arms and upper chest aching fit to burst, Dean sat as still as he could to assuage the pain, turning over his father's words in his head. Endurance… that's what it was all about. The life they led, the things they killed… the only way to survive it was by building up endurance. Endurance to the pain of digging up graves, of moving around before getting the chance to make real friends, of remaining on the fringes of society, of the physical beating given by supernatural monsters… Dean had always thought that the name of the game was speed and skill, but it was really all about endurance.

As Dean caught his breath and stretched his arms, he vowed that from then on, he would do fifty push-ups a day… his dad, who seemed to know everything and do everything without breaking a sweat, had never steered him wrong before, not once since he shoved the infant Sam into Dean's arms and told him to run outside, to escape the fire… and he was quite sure that John wasn't pointing him in the wrong direction now. It was survival of the fittest, and Dean intended to live.

_Endurance_, Dean thought, and he stood up to go have a sparring lesson with his brother.


	5. Rule 5

**A/N:** I just wanted to note that I decided to raise the rating to T; as the boys get older, more swearing and gruesome hunting ensues. And a big thanks to everyone who reviewed. You guys helped break me out of my writer's block, and now I'm quite pleased with this chapter's outcome. Also, thanks for the input, Pheebs; I definitely agree with you.

* * *

_Rule Five: Always know what kind of monster you're dealing with._

"She's hot."

It was a typical Dean comment, and as always, Sam had no idea what his ass of an older brother was talking about. Swinging his heavy backpack through the open window of the car, he gave the relaxed teenager in the driver's seat the nastiest, most annoyed glare he could muster. But his horny 18-year-old brother didn't seem bothered; instead, his smirk widened as his eyes flickered to a spot somewhere behind Sam, towards the junior high school where all the students were sauntering out into the warm May sunlight.

Deciding to humor him, Sam swiveled around and peered behind him. There, leaning against the bike rack with several other girls, was Rosemarie: flowing burgundy hair, shocking blue eyes, and a slender figure. Sam had been able to do nothing but stare at her since they'd moved to Crowheart, Wyoming several weeks prior. Blinking his eyes away from the sight of her face lit up with a smile, he looked back at his brother with a glower. "She's fourteen."

Dean rolled his eyes and snorted. "I meant for _you_, Sammy. She's totally checking you out. Little young for my tastes. I like a girl with experience."

Sam rolled his eyes, understanding his older brother's meaning. "You're such a pig sometimes, you know that? And she was not checking me out."

But Dean didn't say anything. Confusion creased Sam's face as he watched his brother raise his eyes slowly, still staring at a spot somewhere behind fourteen-year-old Sam. The latter stood still for a moment, just outside the passenger door of the Impala, before he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Sam?" It was a pretty female purr. He practically stumbled over his big feet as he whirled around, Rosemarie smiling shyly at him through a pearly white, Cheshire smile.

"Uh… hi," he choked out, feeling as if all the air in his lungs had suddenly whooshed out of him. His insides were as cold and squirming as if a spirit had recently passed right through him. "Uh, this is my brother, Dean," he blurted, unsure of what else to say.

"Hey there," came the predicted suave voice behind him. Sam wished that the Impala would just roll away or something; having his brother sitting right behind him—probably with a smirk still on his lips, watching him stumble over his words in front of a pretty girl—was making his face grow hot.

"Listen, Sam," she began with a gentle smile and a spark in her eyes, "I was just wondering if you were planning on going to the spring dance this Saturday?"

Spring dance? Sam felt his stomach bottom out completely. He'd never gone to a school dance before… and he certainly hadn't ever been asked. Wait—why did she want to know? Trying to turn off his brain, Sam forced a smile. "I hadn't really thought about it."

"Well, would you like to go with me?" Rosemarie asked, twirling a lock of crimson hair between her fingers with feline grace. Sam felt his throat tighten, and all he could do was nod. Her smile widened. "Great! Why don't you pick me up at 7:30? I live at 1430 Buffalo Drive. See you later."

By the time Sam had processed the information, he spotted Rosemarie already sashaying back to her friends like a cat following a dancing feather. He stood stock-still, feeling like a stone statue, until his brother's voice broke his paralysis. "I told you she was checking you out."

Without a second's hesitation, Sam yanked the door open and slid into the seat, still feeling like someone had delivered him a hefty punch to the gut. His mind was swirling with doubt. "Dad'll never let me go. We're supposed to go take care of that—whatever it is—aren't we?"

A glance at Dean showed his older brother flipping through his wallet. Without looking up, Dean replied, "Dad doesn't know what it is yet. All we know is that there've been weird deaths and some freaky noises coming from some abandoned house, the Anderson house I think it's called. And if we don't know what it is, we won't be going after it."

But Sam's mind wouldn't let him drop the subject. He had learned to expect the worst in every situation. Raising his eyebrows as Dean began fishing through his pockets, he commented, "But won't Dad need me to help figure out what it is?"

Dean shot him a quizzical look as he reached over and popped open the glove compartment. "I thought you were the one that tried to get out of hunting as much as possible?"

As Dean's hands rifled through papers and other such garbage, Sam allowed his eyes to turn out the window to where the attractive redhead was still leaning casually against the bike rack. "Well, yeah, but… Rosemarie is… _popular_," he mumbled the last word, almost ashamed to admit his doubts. "She only hangs out with cheerleaders and jocks." When he glanced back at Dean, he saw that his big brother had found what he was looking for and was pushing the glove compartment shut.

"Well, maybe she wants you to try out for the basketball team. You're getting pretty tall," Dean smirked, polishing the small card in his hand.

"What's that?" Sam nodded to the piece of plastic.

As Dean put the car into drive, he held out a credit card sporting the name Bill Ward. Sam stared at him blankly until Dean stuffed the card in his pocket, pulled out of the parking lot, and replied, "Get your sunglasses, Elwood; Billy-boy is gonna buy you a tux for the dance."

* * *

"And Dean—I want your ass right back here after you drop Sam off. We've got to figure out what this thing is," John called out after the two brothers as they pulled open the car doors.

"Yes, Sir," Dean replied as Sam was situating himself in the passenger seat, tugging at his stiff, uncomfortable, as-good-as-stolen tux. Dean revved the engine, and the car peeled away down the street.

"You know, Dean, you'd be a sucky chauffeur," he commented with a nervous smile, trying to crush the butterflies that furiously flitted in his stomach.

"Why's that?"

"Because you drive like a maniac."

Dean cracked a smile and peered at a passing street sign. "Well, it's either this or you're walking to the dance, and somehow I don't think your little date would like that too much. What'd you say the address was, again?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "1430 Buffalo Drive. And somehow I don't think Rosemarie will appreciate listening to the dulcet sounds of Black Sabbath."

Dean's response was to crank up the music. Ignoring his older brother for the time being—as well as the hard rock blasting through the speakers—, Sam gazed out the window into the darkening streets that passed by in a blur. As the car turned down Buffalo Drive, the reckless driving slowed significantly. He could hear his brother murmuring, "1430… 1430…" under his breath as he searched for the address, but Sam was too busy focusing on the somewhat decrepit street. He'd never pegged Rosemarie to live in a place like this, but then again, looks could be deceiving.

The car slowed to a crawl as Sam's gaze washed over a grassless lawn and a hunched, mangy Black Lab with glinting, yellowish eyes slinking away into the shadows. Shaking away the eerie sight, he looked up at the house that the car had come to a halt before.

Shingles missing and worn with age, the roof appeared to be sinking into the ramshackle house—if one were so inclined to, indeed, call it a house. The building appeared to be crumbling in on itself: its windows were caked with dust and long spidery cracks, and dead shrubberies clung to the decaying wooden walls.

But the worst thing about the house, including its dilapidated appearance, was the crooked mailbox at the end of the driveway mockingly sporting the four-digit number that now sent Sam's stomach into a churning mass of regret. 1430.

"Sam…"

Dean's voice trailed off, and Sam found himself unable to look at his older brother—unable to turn his eyes upon Dean, who could probably get any girl he wanted, who had surely never ended up the butt of a cruel joke.

"I'm sorry, Kiddo… You know, you're too good for her, anyway—"

But Sam didn't want to hear it. Still not looking at Dean, he pushed open the car door and stepped out, sauntering numbly over to the driveway. He heard the driver door creak open as his brother stepped out, and he heard Dean calling for him to get back in the car, but he didn't want to hear it. Instead, his mind was busy putting together a couple of puzzle pieces. "This looks like the Anderson house," he said, his voice a low monotone.

There was a pause. "You're right. Shit, Sammy, I should have recognized the address. I knew Buffalo Drive sounded familiar… Hey, what are you doing?"

Before he knew it, Sam found himself standing over the open trunk of the Impala, staring down at a multiplicity of weapons. Picking up a shotgun, he checked to see that it was loaded, muttering quietly, "There's something in there that we've got to hunt. We're already here, so we might as well hunt it."

"Sammy, I'm sorry about Rosemarie, but we have no idea what's in there. Now get back in the car." Dean's voice had taken on the harsh tone of authority that John usually used when speaking to Sam. But Sam hardly listened to his father anymore, so he decided not to listen to Dean, either. He knew that when he shut himself down and became a hunter, everything became numb. It was his job. And right now, with all the hurt swirling around inside of him, he welcomed that numbness. So he slammed the trunk shut and strode deliberately up the driveway.

"Sam, you get your ass back in that car or I'll leave without you, do you hear me?" Sam didn't look back as he pulled open the front door of the shack, hearing his brother's angry "son of a bitch!" behind him, as well as the footfalls of a panicked brother hurrying over to the weapons trunk.

The inside of the house was just as bad as the outside suggested; cobwebs clung to the edges of the darkness, tattered furniture—which looked as if it had been purposely clawed to bits—sat overturned in the rooms, and light fixtures hung cracked and broken from the caving ceiling. Sam held his gun out in front of him as he crept up the stairs, scoping out the area for telltale sights and smells.

A large shadow moved on the far wall, and Sam whirled around, brandishing his shotgun at a dark, looming face. But two rough hands swiftly attacked—one knocking the wind from his gut and the other twisting the gun from his hands. Sam, who was doubled over and on his knees, lifted his head and moved to the side so that the faint light filtering in through the dusty windows caught the figure. Unable to stop himself, Sam let out a gasp.

It was a man. His graying hair was frail and bedraggled, skin was wrinkled and sallow, and his clothes were almost tattered enough to be a matching set to the house's furnishings. "You lookin' for trouble, kid?" the man spoke in a rough, sandpapery whisper.

"Sammy?" Dean's distant voice called from downstairs. The man shook the gun slightly, a warning for Sam not to reply, and the young man in a dirty tux complied.

As he knelt there, hands held up at his sides, the numbness melted away into raw pain. Oh god, why had he gone running in there with a gun? Now he was trapped with some old guy who had been staying in the abandoned house because he probably had nowhere else to go and was now pointing the gun at Sam, and oh god, why hadn't he listened to Dean? Now he was going to get both him and Dean killed, and it wouldn't even be from the thing they were hunting.

"Sam, where are you?" Dean's voice was farther away now, moving in the opposite direction of the stairs, and Sam prayed that his brother would turn around and go in the right direction, or that the man would just shoot him already.

"Looks like I got me some fresh meat tonight," the man growled, his eyes shining almost yellowish in the dying sunlight that peeked out over the horizon and slipped in through the solitary window.

Sam felt his heart speed up as panic welled within him. What was this guy planning on doing? But then a miracle worthy of keeping candles lit for eight days and nights occurred: hasty footsteps pounded up the creaky stairs. As the door to the room burst open, Sam felt the man's calloused hand grab him by the collar of his tux and pull him to a standing position in front of him. The icy barrel of the shotgun met Sam's perspiring temple.

But it didn't matter—Dean was standing in the doorway (surely having kicked his way in), clad in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, face hard and determined, aiming a pistol at the man. "Drop him," he ordered in an even voice.

"You take one step and I'll blow his brains out," the man hissed, and Sam could feel hot, stale breath on the back of his neck. The gun pressed harder against his head, which was being held in place by the chokehold that the man had on him.

For a moment, time was frozen. Sam watched Dean with wide, petrified eyes; Dean stood still, his grip on the pistol unwavering. But then Sam's eyes met Dean's hazel ones, and he understood the silent message they were sending. Sam wasn't sure what Dean was going to do, but he knew that he had to loosen the man's grip on his neck in order for Dean to move without the fear of Sam getting shot.

Lifting his leg slightly, he brought his heel down sharply on the man's shin, eliciting a cry of surprise. The chokehold fell away, and Sam dove to the side. He landed on hands and knees as the crack of a gunshot filled the air, causing him to look up just in time to scramble out of the way of the collapsing body.

There was a soft thud, and dust rose in soft clouds around the body. One strong hand grabbed Sam under his arm and hauled him to his feet, turning him around so that his gaze was torn from the old man with the tiny bullet-hole in his head, from which a tiny stream of blood dribbled almost innocently.

"You all right?" Dean asked, his voice quiet. Sam took a breath, unable to get the image of the dead man from his mind, as he looked up at his brother.

"You… you just shot a man," he whispered, not trusting his voice, refraining from adding, _and it was all my fault._

"He was gonna kill you," Dean replied resolutely, as if that answered everything. "And besides, he was a skinwalker."

"What?"

Dean grimaced. "See for yourself."

Sam turned around to look upon the old man's body—yet he was startled and somewhat sickened to see a scruffy Black Labrador lying sprawled out on the floor, a puddle of crimson liquid forming around the motionless head.

"But—how did you know?"

"Saw paw prints turn into human prints downstairs." Dean tucked the pistol firmly into his jeans.

"Yeah… and his eyes…" Sam murmured, breaking off with a shiver. "Guess that explains the killings." When he looked up, he saw that Dean was staring him square in the face, his features set like stone. But when he spoke, his voice was incongruously gentle rather than accusatory.

"You know, Sam, that could have gone a lot worse if I hadn't shown up."

Sam looked at his shoes. "I know."

"…Because if you don't know what you're up against, you're probably not gonna know how to stop it. You've got to always know what kind of monster you're dealing with. Always. It's just lucky we figured this one out before it was too late."

Turning his eyes back up to his brother, who had always been there for him, Sam couldn't help but be filled with a fierce urge to listen to him this time. Thinking back to the two monsters he'd dealt with that day, he mentally noted down Dean's advice, wishing he had known what he was up against before saying yes to Rosemarie and swearing that next time he would. Without another word, the two brothers made their way out of 1430 Buffalo Drive.

"Dad's gonna have a cow when he hears about this," Dean commented with a smirk as he swung himself into the driver's seat. Sam's heart clenched momentarily. "But he'll be pleased that we took it down."

Sam allowed himself to relax as he settled into the passenger seat, shrugging out of his stiff tux jacket. "Yeah, thanks to the great directions we got."

Dean shook his head as he turned the key in the ignition, allowing the engine to rumble to life like a waking lion. "Man, what a lame prank. Telling you to go to an abandoned house? Pathetic."

A smile quirked up on Sam's face. "Yeah, I bet we could come up with something better."

"I'm thinking something with guns and crazy dog-men," Dean offered, turning the car onto another street. "Anything's better than what that Rosemarie chick came up with—though it did help us kill the bastard."

Sam smirked and turned his gaze out the window, watching the darkened streets blur past. "Remind me to thank her on Monday."

Dean's response was to crank up the music.


	6. Rule 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AC/DC or the song "Shoot to Thrill" (though it is a very good song, and I highly recommend it!).

* * *

_Rule Six: Lose at least one game of pool before going for the kill._

Smoky, musty air was filled with the clanking of bottles and the hard crack of cue balls breaking open a sea of color. Turning down the collar of his leather jacket, Dean stepped into the dimly lit bar with a satisfied glance around the place. Dirty, filled with half-witted drunkards, and rocking with a fine taste in music, Dean decided that this was the perfect place to spend a Friday night.

Making himself comfortable at the bar, he waited for the rather scantily-clad brunette of a barmaid to turn around and see him. When she did, he flashed his most charming smile and tried to guess her age—probably in her late twenties, early thirties, he suspected. "Hey there, Cowboy," she greeted in a heavy Southern accent.

"Hey yourself," he replied, his smile widening.

Before he got a chance to say another word, her eyes narrowed slightly as she spat out, "You wanna show me some ID? Because if you're underage, I _know_ your ass would not be on my barstool."

Reaching into his coat, Dean extracted his wallet and flipped through it for an ID. He handed it to the barmaid triumphantly—after all, she didn't really need to know that he was actually just shy of turning twenty. Of course, Dean had always attributed the ease with which he tricked bartenders to his mature, manly features. Sam had always commented that it was a shame he didn't have a matching brain to go with his exterior maturity.

"Well, Mr. Harper," the barmaid said with a slight undertone of suspicion as she handed the ID back. "What'll it be?"

Turning the charm back on, Dean grinned. "Please, call me—" But, upon discovering that he didn't recall the first name on the ID and it was already being tucked safely back in his coat pocket, he cut himself off. _Son of a bitch. Name… name… _"Uh, actually, Mr. Harper is fine." He flashed another toothy smile as he ordered a beer, and the woman returned a wary, scrutinizing half-grin. Lifting the slippery, sweating bottle from the counter, he stepped away from the bar to survey the area he had come here to utilize: the pool tables.

There were two of them positioned on opposite corners of the barroom, along with several tables strewn throughout the dump. A rather large, round table in the corner could be seen through a thick veil of smoke—at it were several tough-looking, burly guys blackening their lungs with cigars and throwing around money by means of a deck of cards. Dean considered joining them for a moment before a large man from the table with a tattoo of a broken heart on his muscular upper-arm stood up, slugged the man next to him, and stormed off. No, thank you; he didn't feel like getting into a brawl tonight. All he wanted was some spare cash.

His tactic was simple yet effective. Striding over to the empty pool table, he picked up a stick and fumbled with it for a moment as he chalked the tip. He took a quick swig of beer before clumsily setting the balls on the table, dropping one loudly on the floor in the process. That attracted a couple of guys leaning by the wall, who jabbed one another in obvious amusement. Smirking, Dean leaned over the table to place the ball back with the others, thinking, _Come on boys; take the bait._ A quick glance at the gathering of guys at a nearby wall enticed him to take the show a step further.

Stumbling to the other side of the table where the cue ball resided, Dean lined up a piss-poor shot and struck the tip of the stick against the round white orb. It darted off down the table, colliding with the edge and doubling back to feebly strike the triangle, hardly moving the balls at all. That elicited a hoot of laughter from one of the guys, and Dean paused to take a long swig from his beer.

"You up for a game?" a thick, growling voice asked from amid the group of men. A brawny black man stepped forward, enveloped in a circle of smoke that slunk artfully from his cigar.

"Sure, a game sounds good to me," Dean replied in a perfected slur reminiscent of one who has had a few too many drinks. "Wanna make it interesting?" he offered, pulling a fifty from his pocket and slamming it down on the pool table.

The black man smirked and pulled out two twenties and a ten. Once the money was collected, it was weighted down on a nearby table by Dean's bottle of beer. "Boy, he gun' eat yew _right_ up," a squat man, who both looked and sounded like a hick, spoke up from the conglomeration of onlookers.

Eyeing the wad of cash, Dean grinned and tilted his head as he took another long drink before setting his bottle back on the future winnings. "Well, I'm always up for a challenge. Gotta name, bud?"

The black man glowered, taking up a pool stick and striding heavily over to the table. "Shooter," he rumbled, his voice like the revving engine of the Impala.

"Right, figures" Dean mumbled as he gathered the balls once more and inexpertly shoved them into the triangle, consciously remembering to slur his speech as much as possible and stumble a bit as he walked back around to the other side of the table. "Wanna break?"

Shooter let out a low, earth-rattling laugh. Hick-Man wheezed with hilarity. "I think yew gun' need all the help yew kin git."

Shrugging—and all the while enjoying how these yahoos predictably played right into his trap—, Dean bent over, lined up his shot, and sent the cue ball whizzing down the table like a rampaging Wendigo. The triangle of pool balls scattered across the table, three of them landing in pockets. As Dean took an unsteady step back, a wouldja-look-at-that-good-luck? grin playing on his face, he turned to Shooter. The latter's features were impassive, but Dean could see his surprise by the hard glint in his furious eyes.

Shooter eyed his opponent suspiciously before taking up his shot and sinking a ball easily. Meanwhile, Dean leaned awkwardly against the table, his spirits rising with the prospect of another fifty to adorn his wallet of fake IDs. A warm cockiness bubbled in his stomach, like a burst of invincibility, and as he easily made his next shot, he let his mind wander a bit. After this he'd play a few more games, see if he could finish with an extra two hundred. Then he'd head out—maybe stop at that bookstore (much as he hated them) down the street, see if they had that Shakespeare thing Sam needed for school. He was supposed to have started reading it already, but John had never been one to waste money on school supplies. So Sam had been snatching bits and pieces of it when his friends talked about it, walking around the house repeating the lines he'd heard so he wouldn't forget them. Dean was sure he had, on occasion, heard Sam mumbling, "Fair is foul," several times as the kid pored over his homework.

Shooter was livid; his mouth was in a thin, straight line, and his eyes threatened a slow and bloody murder to anyone who crossed his path. Dean merely grinned, watching as the ball slipped eagerly into the corner pocket before turning around and leaning on his stick. "Well, Shitter, I think you've just made me fifty bucks richer," he enunciated, gracefully leaning his stick against the wall and reaching for the money. But before he could get to the table, Shooter was in his face, towering above him and baring his obscenely white teeth.

"You're a cheat, aren't you little punk?" he growled, stepping in further.

"I don' think he even drunk, Shoots," Hick-Man pointed out needlessly, a frown pulling the corners of his lips down over his missing-a-tooth mouth.

Dean took a step away from the table with the money on it, putting his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "Hey, I won fair and square, so why don't you just back off, _Shoots_?" he offered, searching out the bar's exit, which was impossible to find in all the smoke.

"You didn't win nothing, punk. You played us. You're a con artist and a hustler, and I ain't letting you get away with my money," Shooter replied, rolling his hands into fists menacingly.

Despite his years of training, Dean still had no urge to fight this huge, muscular man; he didn't have a death wish, and he certainly wasn't about to get killed off by something that wasn't even supernatural. _But the son of a bitch is trying to keep the money—_, he thought, _money that I won. Fair and square. Tough shit for him if he thought I was drunk._

"I don't want to fight you, Shooter," he announced at last, having backed up until his backside brushed up against the pool table. "But I'm not leaving here without my money."

"Wrong answer." And with that, Shooter's fist came careening through the air, straight as he shot stick. But Dean—having predicted such an outcome—ducked, grabbed Shooter's arm, and twisted it around the man's back until he was fairly certain the shoulder would pop out of its socket at any given moment. Like a caged animal, Shooter gave a ferocious growl.

Well, so much for not getting into a brawl tonight.

Before he knew it, Shooter had yanked out of his grip and socked him hard in the gut. Winded, Dean bent over sideways as a fist collided with his head and then grabbed him by the lapel of his leather jacket. Stars danced in front of his eyes as he grasped the man's hand, twisted, and pushed him to the floor before delivering him a hard kick to the stomach.

"Boy, yew sure done it now!" Hick-Man called from the safety of the sidelines.

Panting and squinting from the pain ricocheting through his head, Dean replied, "Can it, Corncob, or your ass is next." But the distraction had worked, and the damage was done. Shooter was up, shoving Dean hard against the pool table. A punch to the face cracked Dean's nose and sent warm, coppery blood dribbling over his lips to his chin. An elbow to the chest sent Shooter gasping for air.

Dean spat on the floor as he darted over to the wall, grabbing his pool stick. The wood splintered and cracked in two as it broke over Shooter's bent back, and Dean grinned triumphantly as he back-fisted Shooter's thick head, surely sending him into a momentary oblivion of pain.

Turning around, Dean faced the little gang of cronies by the wall. Several of them were already cracking their knuckles, narrowing their eyes and baring their teeth in fury. "You're gonna regret the day you messed with Shooter," one of them threatened.

Blinking back the stinging in his nose, Dean grimaced. "I never regret the day I win fifty bucks from a bunch of beer-for-brain hicks," he retorted as he stepped over the groaning Shooter, grabbed the money off the table, and stuffed it in his pocket. But suddenly his jaw felt as if it were set on fire as it was blown to the side, and turning, Dean saw five or six men descending upon him. "Son of a…"

Quick as he could, he delivered several skillful punches and kicks to the men around him, successfully taking down two of the skinnier ones. He doubled over from a punch to the gut; and then he felt as if he was taking a punch to the brain as an AC/DC song came on through the bar's speakers.

"_All you women who want a man of the street, but you don't know which way you wanna turn…"_

_Oh, kill me now,_ Dean thought sarcastically as the irony of the song filled him with exasperated, exhausted amusement. He could feel his knuckles bruising as he slammed another guy straight in the face, sending him stumbling backwards to the floor. A split second later, someone behind him wrapped a bulky arm around his neck, momentarily choking off his air supply—gripping the arm rightly, he threw himself forward with all his might and sent the guy toppling over onto the floor.

"_I'm gonna take you down— down, down, down… So don't you fool around…"_

There was a moment's lull in the action. Dean took a couple of heavy breaths, trying to block out the blinding pain in his head, nose, and several other body parts that had gotten sufficiently beaten.

"Yew had enough, city boy?" Dean looked up to see Hick-Man standing before him with raised fists. Fortunately, he appeared to be more chub than muscle, and Dean smirked.

"Oh, I'm just getting started," he replied through his panting, and without another thought, he sent his fist sailing forward towards the man. It connected with the flabby, fleshy face with a hard smack, and this time Dean was sure several small bones in his hand had broken by the numbing ache in his knuckles. Still, satisfaction came when he saw Hick-Man give a cry of surprise and fall over himself in his haste to exit the bar.

But as Dean was relishing in his victory, two strong hands grabbed him from behind and spun him around before he was being kneed repeatedly in the stomach. Through blurred vision, he saw that Shooter had gotten up and was now causing the piercing pain in Dean's back by slamming him against the wall. When it stopped, Dean allowed himself to slide slowly down to the floor, his legs no longer able to hold up his body. Through his confusion, he faintly felt someone rifling through his pockets before extracting the wad of cash.

"You thought you could run off with my money, did you?" Shooter's low growl met his ears, and Dean's cheek felt as if it were blasted in by the force of the punch. The metallic taste of blood was filling his mouth, and he could feel the liquid spilling out between his lips, but he was unable to do anything to stop Shooter's attacks. Except…

"_Shoot to thrill, play to kill, too many women with too many pills. Shoot to thrill, play to kill—I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will…"_

_Don't fall unconscious._ His dad had taught him that. It wasn't something that could be easily controlled, but John Winchester always said never to let yourself get knocked unconscious; then whoever the hell you're with can do whatever the hell they want with you. But Dean knew there was no way to stop Shooter's attacks, which would surely lead to him slipping into the oncoming darkness.

Dean blinked, seeing Shooter preparing for another kick—and he forced his arm to move, reaching into his makeshift gun holster and pulling out his trusty .45—much to the ironical astonishment of Shooter, who immediately stopped his forward movements.

In a slightly trembling grip, Dean pointed the gun in the direction of his large opponent, breathing heavily and spitting blood from his mouth. "Take another step. Go ahead," Dean spat, thankful for the thick smoke enveloping the bar and shrouding him from the view of most of the other people. Only a few seemed to notice that a man was crumpled against a wall wielding a gun, and they seemed too drunk to be much perturbed.

"_I'm gonna take you down— down, down, down… So don't you fool around… I'm gonna pull it, pull it, pull the trigger!"_

Survival. No, Dean had never really considered shooting the man, as much as he hated the bastard at the moment. He didn't kill people; he killed demons. People were generally off-limits. But in that moment, cornered against the wall of the bar with a ferocious man before him—who might have actually killed him willingly had he given him the chance—he felt as though one less Shooter in the world would be more of a gain than a loss, really. Still, his finger wasn't really planning on tugging against the trigger.

Thankfully, Shooter didn't know that.

The large, black man took a hesitant step backwards, as if testing the floor. Dean motioned with the gun towards the general direction of the exit, and Shooter turned and high-tailed it out of there as fast as a cat being hotly pursued by a sheepdog.

Tucking the gun back into his pants, Dean sat there for a few moments, gathering his wits and wiping the blood from his face. As soon as the pain rescinded somewhat, he pushed himself into a standing position, leaning heavily against the wall. Reaching into his pocket confirmed the absence of a hundred dollars.

_Son of a bitch._ Well, that had blown up in his face. He supposed it was too sudden and too drastic of a change—one minute appearing to teeter on the edge of an alcohol-induced coma, the next having precise enough aim to win a pool game. He had to somehow slow the process, make people believe that he hadn't been conning them all along…

Bending over, which did little to help his back, Dean fumbled around in his shoe until he pulled out a ten dollar bill. "It's just you and me, Hamilton," he murmured with a sigh. When he was sure that his legs worked all right, he strode back in the direction of the exit, passing the bar as he did so. The same brunette barmaid from before grinned at him, and his feet led him over to a stool.

"What happened to your face, Cowboy?" she asked with a curious look in her eyes, and Dean realized that he was probably bruised to holy hell.

Dean grinned. "Long story…"

"I bet another drink would loosen that tongue of yours a bit," she offered suggestively, and for a moment Dean wanted to slam his ten down and see how far he could get with this chick… but he stopped himself.

"No thanks. I'll have to take a rain check," he replied before heading out of the bar.

As he walked through the crisp night air, stuffing his hands into his pockets, his mind wandered back to his major slipup at the pool table. Lengthen the process… He couldn't bring on a crippling win quite so quickly. Next time he'd have to wait a bit, maybe let somebody else win at first so that he'd have more willing competition.

People gave him odd looks in the bookstore, but he paid them no mind. He was used to getting odd looks. Finding the right section, he spotted Macbeth and pulled it from the shelf.

_Right, so next time I'll just lose at least one game of pool before going for the kill,_ he mused—_no pun intended_, his mind added morbidly as he felt the cool metal gun press against his back. He idly flipped the book in his hands open to the first page.

"Fair is foul and foul is fair…"

_I'll say,_ Dean concurred with the sentiment, thinking back to the unfair pool game and the morally twisted brawl and his brandishing of the gun. _That should be the Winchester family motto._

And as Dean went up to the counter to pay with his remaining ten dollars, he hoped that Sammy would ace his Macbeth test.


	7. Rule 7

**A/N:** Sorry for the long wait! It took me a long time to figure out what kind of creature I wanted to use. So I hope it turned out all right.

* * *

_Rule Seven: Keep a knife at the ready, no matter where you are._

It had been one hell of a long day in the car. Sam seemed to be getting taller everyday—or perhaps the backseat of the Chevy Impala was simply getting smaller. After the multi-hour drive up to Oregon, the sixteen-year-old gladly hopped out of the car to stretch his stiff, wiry legs. Grabbing his duffel bag from the seat next to him, he slung it over his shoulder and gazed, with a heavy sigh, up at the dense forest spread out before them.

Massive trees stretched up to the sky like rough, reddish fingers topped with emerald leaves and surrounded by tufts of green shrubbery. A narrow dirt trail wound its way towards a small log cabin in the distance—the one, John had discovered, had been empty for two years, ever since the owner was impaled through the head by a sharp tree branch.

"All right, boys. Let's get a move on," John commanded from the front of the group, a bag of artillery over one shoulder and one of clothes on the other. Without hesitation, twenty-year-old Dean trekked after his father, leaving Sam to grudgingly bring up the rear. He was seriously considering sleeping in the car, simply in defiance of his father; but of course, the logical part of his brain reminded him what an idiotic idea that was, and so he trudged towards the cabin in Dean's wake.

They'd had another argument—big surprise. It seemed like they had one every week nowadays. Especially now that summer had arrived, and there was no longer school to keep Sam's mind off of hunting. Now there was nothing but driving, hunting, and bickering… like some kind of torturous cycle, always waiting for the next succession. Sam wondered faintly if this was how werewolves felt when they watched the moon.

The cabin was enveloped by overgrown plant life in varying hues of green; its few windows were tinted with dust and other woodland debris. It reminded Sam of that cabin from The Ring. As they stepped into the dim, stale interior—_Home, sweet home,_ he thought bitterly—Sam tried to remember if "home" had ever been something other than a rundown excuse for shelter, had ever been, perhaps, similar to homes on old sitcoms from the '50s.

It hadn't, as far as he could remember.

There was a muffled thump as John dropped his duffle bags onto the floor, which looked rotted with termite damage. "It's been a long day. Why don't you two hit the sac and we'll investigate the area in the morning?"

Dean, gazing around in apparent scrutiny of the cabin, nodded obediently. "Yes, Sir." And with a small nod of seeming approval of their current residence, the elder brother sauntered over to a side-room and peeked inside. "Think I found our room, Sammy!" he called, turning his head to the side so that his voice carried back to the youngest Winchester.

"It's Sam," he grumbled just quiet enough for Dean to hear as he brushed past him into the room and chucked his bag onto the far bed by the window—before flopping down on top of the dirty, old covers himself.

"It's Sammy," Dean countered with a grin as he sat down on his own bed and unloaded several weapons from his bag. "And what's got your panties all in a twist?"

"Nothing," Sam mumbled as he turned over and pressed his chin into the pillow that had probably been lying dormant on the bed for the past two years. "Though it would be nice to sleep somewhere that we didn't break into because nobody else paid it any attention after the owner was brutally murdered," he added as an afterthought.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Dean replied as he peeled back the musty covers for inspection. "Just be glad that dude had kids, or we'd probably be sleeping on the floor right now."

Sam rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, which was cast in semi-darkness. "I guess this'll make for one hell of a 'What I Did on my Summer Vacation" essay," he murmured darkly. Then, as if reading aloud from an invisible paper that had manifested itself before his eyes, he continued, " 'After finals, my brother, Dad, and I went to Nevada to look into disappearances. Once on that trip, I stayed up all night with a gun in my lap hoping that my face wouldn't get sucked off. Then we went to Oregon, where some creature seemed to have a taste for lumberjack blood—' You know, somehow, I'd rather write about playing baseball with my friends and hanging out by the pool."

Glancing over at Dean, he saw that his older brother had deemed the bed adequate and was settling on top of it, pulling his shirt off in the process and stuffing it into his bag. "Sure sounds like boring crap to me," he commented absently, once again digging through his bag.

"It's safe."

"So is having a gun in your lap all night. Dad taught you how to protect yourself."

A surge of fiery indignation swept through Sam like a struck match, and he sat up quickly. "I don't want to _have_ to protect myself like that!" As the cinders slowly burned down and his anger was quelled, he watched Dean extract a huge, shiny knife from his bag and slip it under his pillow. He blinked, startled. "Wha—what are you doing?"

Dean leaned back on the bed, and the rising moon filtered through the window and illuminated his silhouette. "Well, I was going to stop listening to your bitching and go to sleep…"

"Did you just put a _knife_ under your pillow?" Sam interjected, baffled.

"Yeah." There was a pause in which Sam continued to stare, dumbfounded, and Dean continued. "In the past five years, over ten lumberjacks have been skewered to death by shards of wood right around here. And judging by the blood that seems to have evaporated from all their bodies when they're found, I'd say we're either dealing with an Agropelter or a finicky, anemic, vegetarian werewolf. Now, I don't know about you, but I don't really want to come up against either of those things unarmed."

"…And you think they'll barge in and attack you in your sleep?"

Dean snorted, and even in the growing darkness, Sam could see the smirk on his face. "No, actually I was thinking they'd politely wake me up before they savagely ripped me to pieces. We're hunters, Sam. We've gotta be prepared for things like that."

But Sam merely rolled his eyes, turning over so that he faced the wall rather than Dean and pulling the covers up over him. They smelled old, _rotting_ even. He hated when they stayed in long-since abandoned houses.

There was a gentle creaking as Dean shifted into a comfortable position on his bed, and then silence took over the room. Sam gazed out the window into the pale moonlight, which drifted through the dirty glass and lit up floating dust particles in the air. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, gazing wistfully into the moonlight, growing more and more resentful of the creaking house around him. He didn't like it—but he wasn't quite sure why.

He guessed it was close to midnight when he stood from his bed, sleep easily eluding him. A glance over at Dean told him that his brother was sound asleep, determined by his arms, interestingly enough. One was flung away and hanging halfway off the bed; the other was tucked neatly under his pillow and—as Sam had recently discovered—was surely gripping the handle of his knife. When Dean feigned sleep (which he was terrible at), his arms were always held close to his body.

Deciding that now was as good a time as any to take a look around the cabin, which continued to give him an unexplainable feeling of hollowness and loss, Sam crept out into the small living room. There were a few moth-eaten couches, but nothing special. Walking stealthily over to another door, he gently pushed it open to find a neglected bathroom. A dirty-looking toilet sat near a narrow shower; on the other side was a wooden cabinet and a dust-covered mirror hanging on the wall above it. Sam stepped into the tight space, leaving the door open to alleviate possible claustrophobia, and used his sleeve to wipe off the cloudy mirror.

His reflection wasn't much better than staring into the dust. A sour look seemed permanently etched into his surly face, his eyebrows knitted together as if someone had sewed them in the middle with a needle and thread. What bothered him the most was that he looked much older than a normal sixteen-year-old should…and he was disturbed by the creases in his forehead and worry lines around his mouth.

And who could he blame but his father? It was John's fault that he dragged his kids around the U.S., gave them guns and knives, and told them to be prepared for death. So Sam was constantly torn between being prepared and scared shitless. And it was all thanks to John.

Sam rubbed at his bloodshot eyes uselessly. He was utterly exhausted, but for some reason this house just wouldn't let him sleep. He wished more than anything that he could dispel the clenched feeling in his chest, but no relief came. The house just creaked ominously around him, rustic and smelling of fresh trees. And Sam stared into the pallor of his reflection…

And a scratching sound echoed from behind him.

Heart skipping a beat, Sam whirled around. But there was nothing in the bathroom—he was alone. And that momentary leap of fear, that black thought of death—that, he blamed on John. John and his crusade. "_O, full of scorpions is my mind!_" he thought, the line racing into his head out of nowhere. He'd had to read Macbeth last year for English. Dean had bought it for him, he recalled. And as he stood there, remembering some of the more disturbing lines of the play—"_Wake Duncan with thy knocking. I would thou could'st_"—something else came into his mind, out of the blue—_Wake _Todd_ with thy knocking_—and he knew, in that instant, why he hated this cabin so much.

It was almost ten years ago that they had left the house in Cedar Springs, the one he'd liked so much. The den of that house had had the exact smell of this cabin, the smell of fresh evergreen. And it had been rustic, too. And the resemblance between the house and this cabin reminded him of leaving the place with the most semblance of normality that he'd ever experienced; of why he left, of why none of his friends would understand if he decided to tell the truth one of these days in those stupid "What I Did on my Summer Vacation" essays. Damn John.

There was another scratching sound, and Sam stood stock-still, peering at the mirror to try and see over his shoulder into the darkness behind him. The shower curtain rustled, and Sam suddenly felt a wave of foolishness mingle with his dread. He should have checked in the shower. But what could be in there…?

Surely not a werewolf; those were too big. Agropelters hid in the husks of dead trees, not in empty showers. It could be a vampire… though, granted, if a vampire was responsible for the attacks, it was sure one hell of a brutal vampire to impale its victims just to drink the blood. And frankly, Sam _really_ didn't want to find a vampire in the shower back there.

Turning slowly, he gripped the edge of the shower curtain, took a breath, and yanked it open. He caught a glimpse of something dwarfish in height, hairy, and slender before it retreated a step and practically vanished into the shadows. Its near-invisibility caused Sam's heart to skip a beat—both with fear and recognition. It was a fucking Agropelter.

The only thing Sam could see in the darkness was the glint of two orange eyes before the creature gave a snarl and leapt forward, long fingers held aloft so that the sharp, pointed nails aimed straight for Sam. Sucking in a quick breath, Sam leapt to the side, banging his knee sharply against the toilet.

_What the fuck?_ He thought wildly, searching for some kind of weapon in the tiny, dingy bathroom that could defend him against the incongruously strong, little creature. _Agropelters are supposed to live in trees!_

The ape-like creature was advancing slowly, transitioning between showing its brown, hairy body and becoming a chameleon with its surroundings. It's three-inch, black fingernails were held up menacingly. After a moment, Sam dashed forward to get around the creature—but the Agropelter lashed out again, swiping its dagger-like nails against Sam's leg and causing him to grunt and stumble sideways, into the empty shower. His head banged against the wall, and he could feel warm, sticky liquid oozing from the deep cuts and soaking into the fabric of his pants, but he ignored the sting as he tried to regain his senses.

The Agropelter was once again blending with the shadows, its orange eyes glinting somewhere near the doorway, blocking Sam's escape route.

This was ridiculous. Sam, of course, knew that Agropelters were known for their sharp claws—but when they wanted to kill someone (mostly unsuspecting lumberjacks), they usually used their immense strength to hurl dead husks of lumber at their skulls. Since when did they live in bathrooms and scratch people, who were just trying to take a leak, to death?

Clearly enjoying the game with its prey, the Agropelter loomed a bit closer before diving at Sam, claws aimed precisely. Sam tried to roll out of the way, but the creature wrapped one long-fingered hand around his wrist and kept him in place as it slashed into Sam's chest, eliciting another grunt of pain.

But then the scratching stopped, and the creature lowered its head to inspect the blood dampening Sam's shirt. Without warning, he felt a rough tongue slide against the wound, and adrenaline surged through him enough to kick wildly at the creature until it snapped back and released its hold.

Pumping his legs, Sam darted out of the bathroom and back towards the bedroom that he and Dean were staying in. There were weapons in there, the ones that Dean had unloaded from his duffel… but he didn't know where they were.

Well, he'd just have to find them.

He had made it halfway into the living room before a sharp hand caught his ankle and sent him sailing to the floor. He'd forgotten how fast the little bastards were: not quite as fast as Wendigos to the point where they moved too fast to be seen, but fast enough. And if they didn't want to be seen, they could just use camouflage to sink away into the shadows.

Rolling onto his back, Sam delivered a hard kick to the creature's head and pushed himself up. Using his long legs to his advantage, Sam took three huge strides towards the bedroom and burst inside, glancing around wildly for weaponry.

And, damn it, Dean—with his arms hanging all over—was still out cold. And Sam couldn't see in the darkness, wishing futilely for sunlight to arrive. "_The night is long that never finds the day._"

Sam heard a faint scratching sound again and knew that the Agropelter was slinking around somewhere in the shadows of the room, waiting for a good time to strike again. _Shit._

"Knife, I need a knife," he murmured, searching desperately for where his brother had stowed the weapons. And then, eyes falling upon Dean's arm that was tucked under his pillow, an idea lit up in his head. He made a mad dash for Dean's bed, shoving the pillow up and thereby knocking Dean's head out of the way. The elder Winchester snapped awake.

"Sammy… what the hell?" he grumbled, his voice caught somewhere between annoyance and concern. But Sam didn't reply; he found the knife, yanked it out of Dean's grip, and held it out towards the darkness. He barely noticed as Dean sat up, eyes wide with curiosity. "What's going on?" he tried again.

But as Sam turned to answer Dean, he caught sight of two orange eyes shooting through the shadows… Leaping forward, he swung the knife down at the Agropelter, swiftly lopping off the creature's head and listening as it thumped dully against the floor. Still clutching the bloody knife, he turned around to face Dean with a wry grin on his face. "I guess our buddy was getting sick of being cramped up in tree husks."

"Agropelter," Dean confirmed, turning his eyes from the creature to Sam. "You're bleeding."

Sam waved it away, the dull sting in his chest and leg already fading. "Good thing you had that knife under your pillow."

Dean stood up from his bed to get a closer look at the creature. "It's like Dad always says: keep a knife at the ready, no matter where you are."

"Yeah, well, I guess I should be more prepared," he admitted grudgingly, his annoyance and anger with the whole notion still burning strong but at the same time accepting his brother's advice. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to start sleeping with a knife under my pillow. I'll leave that to you… don't want to roll over and slice my hand off or anything."

Sam smirked as Dean rolled his eyes. When he looked up, the silhouette of a furious John stood in the doorway, gazing from the headless monkey to the crouching Dean to Sam with a crimson knife.

"What the _hell_ is going on in here?"


	8. Rule 8

**A/N: **Thanks for putting up with the long wait. Unfortunately, life sometimes gets in the way of fic writing. Don't you hate it when that happens? Anyway, a warning for this chapter: it gets a bit raunchy around the middle, though there really aren't any details, just things being implied. But here's a warning anyway. And sorry for all the Macbeth references. They kind of got away from me and became a little three-chapter arc. So I apologize if you've never read it before, but I think the important references are explained in here anyway, so you should be good.

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_Rule Eight: Know when you're being watched and who's watching you._

"And you will call me if you find anything, Detective?"

Dean turned around, gave his sincerest smile, and lied through his teeth. "Of course I will, Ma'am."

The disheveled woman with knots of light hair and watery, mascara-bleeding eyes sniffed and stepped off of her front porch and back into the house. As Dean walked purposefully past the identical square houses to the Impala, parked on the side of Suburbia Lane, he made a mental note to call his father. Another teenage boy dead in his bed, no medical problems, no sign of struggle, no nothing. Well, nothing except wet sheets… but then again, it was a hormonal teenage boy's bed. Nothing special there.

As he crossed the end of the driveway, a light breeze ruffled the upturned collar of his leather jacket and a chill tingled at his skin. Then, faint and whisper-like—the way that déjà vu feels—he knew, just _knew_, that a pair of eyes was following his every move. Slowly and deliberately, he turned in a full circle, scanning the area with a well-trained gaze.

Nothing.

Clear, sunny sky, green grass, pleasant white houses. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Giving himself a mental shake, he let the feeling roll off his back and away from his brain.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Dean revved the engine and pulled away from the nauseatingly normal chunk of Suburban life that he had entered as if in the Twilight Zone. Sometimes all those perfect square houses gave him the creeps.

As he drove he wished idly, and not for the first time, that his father was with him. True, John Winchester was only the in the next down for a day or so to cover more ground in the research phase of this hunt; still, with the empty passenger seat, he felt light-years away. And Sam—17-year-old, senior-in-high-school, homework-obsessed Sam—he was back home doing some crap essay.

It wasn't the first time the three Winchester men had been separated for a few days, but damned if Dean had gotten used to it. He liked his family together, as a whole, a trio taking down demons, thank-you-very-much. That's what it had been a couple of years ago, too. Before Sam's rebellious streak had sprung from the subliminal seeds of school and friends and "normalcy." Whatever that was.

The sky, being sliced through by the orange sun like a stick of butter relenting beneath the sharp blade of a knife, was splashed and speckled like an abstract painting. It seemed the entire light spectrum—what was it, ROYGBIV?—had decided to make an all-star appearance for that particular sunset. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. It was a poet's dream come true. Dean wasn't really that fond of sunsets.

And then there it was again, that odd sensation of two eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, but the backseat was empty. Sighing in frustration with himself, he cranked up the Metallica as "Until It Sleeps" blasted through the speakers.

The road stretched bleakly ahead, the neighborhood swiftly turning from neatly manicured lawns to gas stations and roadside bars. The sunset didn't seem to be quite as luminescent in this neck of the woods. Those kinds of things never were.

At long last, Dean pulled the Impala into the tiny parking lot of the nearby fleabag motel. As his boots met the asphalt with a tap, his eyes swept the area for signs of life. There were none. Yet that creeping feeling of predatory eyes piercing his body remained. He turned a full 720 degrees before once again scolding himself for paranoia. All he needed was some shut-eye.

No, what he _needed_—and of course, would be loath to admit this—was some company. Of course, he'd spent the entire day talking to a wreck of a mother whose son had just died and two stoned teenagers who had been his friends, but that kind of company was about as welcome as dirty socks on a dinner plate. What he needed was someone from _his_ world; and there were only two people like that. One was currently sitting around at home working on some stupid homework assignment, and the other was in the next town doing his own research.

After adding another 360 degrees to his 720, Dean finally dug his hands into his pockets and produced the room key, trudging across the parking lot to room 11. It took all his greatest efforts not to spin around several times when the feeling of being watched intensified. _Coward_, he thought to himself. _Your dad and little brother leave you alone for five minutes and you're already imagining things._

Once inside the room and feeling more at-ease, Dean tossed his jacket onto the nearby table and flopped down on the bed, allowing himself the luxury of a long, heavy sigh. He regretted not stopping for a beer. Hey, at least he was old enough to legally drink it, now.

Idly—more to have something to do with his hands than anything else—Dean reached off the edge of the bed and pulled his duffel bag up onto the questionable mattress. Rifling through it, he found a pair of worn and torn jeans, two shotguns (which he laid out carefully on the bedside table), a toothbrush that had clearly been through the mill, a knife (which he tucked under his pillow), and two books. One was a notebook filled with scraps of information on their current hunt—his own temporary emulation of his father's journal. The other was the faded and weathered copy of Macbeth that he had bought Sam a few years ago for school.

He hadn't told Sam that he'd taken it with him—hell, he'd never even admit to Sam that he'd already read it. Twice. That was information he'd take to the grave, or crematorium. Otherwise Sam would have jested for days about how he'd thought Dean was illiterate.

Flipping through the first couple of pages, not really sure of where his meandering fingers would take him, Dean skimmed several passages. He wasn't really sure why he liked this book so much; after all, reading wasn't exactly his favorite activity in the world. But good ol' Billy Shakespeare… he knew his stuff. It was a classic tale, really; murder, betrayal, a couple of badass witches—the works. But mostly it was about a guy falling victim to the persuasion of the supernatural and descending down the path of darkness through the shedding of human blood. A soldier going from killing on the battlefield to killing his best friend.

There was often a fine line between soldier and murderer; hunter and monster.

Though Dean didn't really like to think about that line too much.

Dropping the book back into the bag, Dean sprawled out on top of the covers, leaning back and closing his eyes with his hands folded neatly under his head. Visions of Banquo's ghost, the dead boy, three witches, and the weeping mother swam erratically through his inner eye. At last, Dean was all arms and legs hanging everywhere on the bed as he faded in and out of fitful unconsciousness.

It was the soft caress that shocked him from his dream involving a showdown between John Winchester, Lady Macbeth, and a vampire that looked oddly like Sam. Mind in a haze, he gazed through the darkness above him, but there was nothing there.

"Dean," a soft, seductive voice whispered in his ear. It sounded both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Which was odd in itself, but he was too groggy and disoriented to notice.

The touch returned, so soft it was like liquid, or a gentle breeze gracing his face and neck. It was soothing, like the hiss of the ocean current washing ashore. He fell into a lull of security as the breeze blew over his mouth, turning into warm breath before lips, soft as rose petals, pressed against his.

By time the unseen lips moved away, Dean knew how far his invisible intruder wanted to go. Yet her identity remained a mystery, as his mind was too foggy to fully comprehend the possible complications of this visit. All he knew was that a feeling of total contentment was filling within him, of belonging… he was with someone, someone who understood him… he was not alone.

The temptress pressed into him, the curve of her darkness fitting nicely with his body like a puzzle. His breathing quickened, and all he could think of was how _right_ this felt. And then she deepened in another kiss, and he felt suddenly as though his remaining energy were being sapped through his mouth. But he didn't care. As long as she was there with him and he wasn't alone.

Light, willowy fingers ran through his short hair, splaying out on the sides of his head as she lowered herself once again.

Dean moaned.

She kissed him again, and he tried to kiss back but was practically paralyzed by the sensation of energy simply pouring out of his mouth. It was as though she were sucking him dry, breathing in his life as he grew more and more tired and confused.

But she was still there with him, and it didn't matter.

She was there, unlike any woman had ever been for him. Not his mother, not any ten-minute girlfriends or one-night stands. She was _there_. With him. And she wasn't leaving.

But he found it difficult to move at all anymore, his heart thumping wildly in his chest as he realized just how truly exhausted he was. Perhaps he and this mystery woman should call it a night. He needed sleep so that he could get up early and work on the hunt.

The _hunt_.

And he thought of his dad, and Sam, and that dead boy, and the weeping mother, and he realized that he _was_ asleep.

Dean's eyes flew open as he woke up, panting and sweating, and when he gazed into the darkness above him, there as more than darkness.

There she was, the mysterious—and no longer invisible—woman: crouching over him, skin pale to the point of ethereal translucence, billowing ebony hair, a smile like broken glass, and darkness swimming tauntingly and seductively in her calculating eyes. Her touch was still soft like liquid, but now, with the comprehension of consciousness, there was something eerie about the way she blew over him like a gentle breeze.

And in the darkness of her eyes, he could see himself.

He could feel that scorching gaze slicing into his skin, burning him and bleeding him dry, as she whispered, "I've been watching you, Dean."

For the briefest of moments, as he gazed into her reflective eyes—_it was him, him in the darkness, alone in the darkness, with the monsters in the darkness and grinning_—, he hesitated. And then he reached swiftly under the pillow beneath his head and withdrew the knife. In one deft movement, he slashed the knife before him, and the blade caught her pearly shoulder. Black blood oozed from the gaping wound, and her eyes lit up with fire as a piercing, unearthly scream like that of a banshee wailed through the night.

A furious wind swirled around for a moment as she glared at him and fled the room. Dean dropped the knife onto the bedside table, breathing slowly and trying to stop the slight trembling in his hands.

It was now obvious to him, in the clarity of wakefulness, what had been watching him leave the boy's house and come back to the motel. And he felt like an idiot for not realizing it. Hadn't his father always told him to know when you're being watched and who's watching you?

But that was the least of the worry and fear coursing through him.

He had liked it. A monster—hell, the thing they were hunting right now—had taken advantage of him, and he had liked it. Had felt safe. Had felt content. Had felt wanted. And goddammit, how screwed up was that?

There was a fine line between hunter and monster.

The thought chilled Dean to the core. Macbeth had briefly been confronted by supernatural beings and had allowed himself to become a monster. Dean dealt with supernatural beings on a daily basis.

What would become of him when that line started to blur?

He thought of the man he had nearly shot a few years ago, the one in the bar—Shooter, ironically. _But I wasn't really going to shoot him._ But he had thought about it. Briefly, momentarily, yes. But he had thought about it.

And suddenly, the line wasn't quite so clear anymore.

Dean carefully controlled his breathing, willing himself not to get sick over the side of the crappy motel bed.

One-night stands were one thing. Ghost rape? Entirely different. At least with human women he wasn't dicking around with the devil. Except, was it really rape at all? Rape was non-consensual. He bit back more bile in his throat.

It would never happen again.

In the coming days, Dean would end up mentioning to his father that he suspected the teenage boys were the victims of a succubus sucking the life out of them through sex. His father would nod pensively. Then, later that week, they would find the bitch and take her down. And John Winchester would beam proudly at his son for putting the clues together.

But it would never happen again.

And Dean would never tell his dad about that night. He wouldn't tell anyone.

But the darkness he'd seen in the mirror of her eyes would continue to haunt him. Every time he glanced over his shoulder in a paranoid fashion, every time he clutched the knife under his pillow—he would see her. And he would know when he was being watched by something so that it would never happen again, because he couldn't bear to witness the darkness obscuring that fine line between hunter and monster. And it was a very fine line indeed.


	9. Rule 9

**A/N:** My apologies for the long wait, though part of it was because of the error that wouldn't let me upload this for the entire weekend. I hope it's all right, and I'd love to hear your feedback via reviews.

* * *

_Rule Nine: A little lighter fluid goes a long way._

The body smelled about as good as a sweat-soaked gym sock covered in rotting vegetation and sour milk. Sam pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth to block out the smell, but it seemed to have saturated his clothes as well, suffocating the room with the detestable odor of death.

Thankfully, if he stood a few feet away, he couldn't distinguish any human features of the body due to it being obscured by the wooden walls of its hole in the floor. However, the smell of something that had been decaying for over a hundred years was still overwhelming.

Apparently, sometime during the nineteenth century, an aristocratic family lived there with several servants. But the master was a cruel man; he often beat his slaves to within an inch of their lives, using a variety of torture methods so that they would be subordinate to his every command. Driven to the brink of insanity, the slaves had eventually cornered the man and stabbed him to death, burying him under the floorboards of the basement just deep enough so that the smell didn't permeate the room.

Five years ago, an African American family had moved into the house. Immediately, the master's vengeful spirit reprised his role by torturing them to death, one by one. Only the one son escaped, and after dappling in the underground community devoted to the paranormal, he had discovered John Winchester's number.

And that was why they were there, staring at the gruesome bones of the dead master under the mess of broken floorboards. Sam felt his stomach turn over as he imagined staring at dead bodies like this for the rest of his life. He'd already spent eighteen freaking years doing it. And he couldn't do it anymore. He had to get away.

Reaching into his pocket, his fingers brushed the folded envelope. He still hadn't opened it yet, too afraid of the probable rejection—of the confirmation that he'd be stuck here burning bodies until he keeled over from old age. The thought made him shudder involuntarily.

"Hey Sam," Dean called from where he was leaning over, inspecting the remains. "You wanna haul ass or what?"

Blinking, he nodded and bent over to lift the canister of lighter fluid. Straying as close to the body as he dared, he began pouring the liquid into the hole. Thankfully, the smell overwhelmed that of death for a few moments. Sam gazed down into the distorted skull, which was absolutely writhing with maggots and other things that he didn't really want to get a closer look at. So he continued to douse it with lighter fluid, every drop a vindictive need to destroy this body, this horrible body that he had to look at and smell because his father was just kind enough to lead his sons into danger and dead bodies. _Thanks, Dad_.

"Whoa!" Sam felt his hand swatted by Dean's, and he stopped pouring. "Jesus Sam, you think you used enough?" The sarcasm was evident when he glanced back down to find the body literally swimming in liquid. Dean let out a low whistle. "A little lighter fluid goes a long way, you know... Fuck, this thing's gonna light up like birthday cake in a nitroglycerine plant."

Dean was frowning slightly, but Sam could tell that he wasn't really that pissed. He could tell by the glint in his eyes. He dropped the nearly empty canister and muttered, "Sorry."

The twenty-two year old glanced over at his younger brother, and Sam could see the beginnings of concern etched there. "You okay?"

Sam bit out a harsh, scoffing snort. "Peachy."

But before Dean could say another word, John Winchester himself bounded down the staircase with a lighter in hand. "You ready, boys?" he panted, clearly having narrowly evaded the ghost's wrath. He looked spent and out of breath, but other than that he seemed all right. Sam didn't feel the least bit of sympathy.

"Wait, Dad, I think there might be too much—" Dean started; but John, apparently eager to finish the spirit off, had already flicked a small orange flame onto the lighter and tossed it over the hole.

It all happened in simultaneous, comical slow-motion.

John's eyes widened as he looked down into the hole.

Dean reached out in a futile effort to snatch the lighter from midair.

Sam cringed as Dean missed and the tiny flame sailed down onto the body in its lighter-fluid-bath.

The burst of fire that erupted from the hole sent all three Winchester men leaping for cover. Sam dove to the ground to avoid the explosion, instinctively throwing his arms over his head. The blast threw him several feet through the air before he landed with a hard thud against the far wall, sliding to the floor so that his arms remained over his head and his face was pressed into crevice between the wall and floor. He lay there for several moments, sucking in oxygen and blinking the stars from his eyes from when he hit his head.

At last he groaned and rolled over onto his back, gazing up at the charred ceiling. His eyes stung a bit as he blinked through the smoke, but he propped himself into a sitting position against the wall to survey the damage.

The basement was a wreck. Everything was charred and smoky, and little tufts of orange flame clung to pieces of the room; they smoldered high and hot in the hole beneath the floorboards. Grimacing, Sam turned his head to see his father, who was wiping his grimy hands on his grimy shirt, and Dean, who was lying nearly motionless on the other end of the room.

"Dean?" he called out, hoping that his voice would rouse his brother. The latter groaned and rolled over, much like Sam had, but didn't respond. Dean!" With a sharp pain pulsing through his head, Sam stumbled to his feet and quickly crossed the room, avoiding the spots of fire dancing and spreading around him. By the time he got to his brother, John was already there, bending down over his eldest son.

Sam cringed at the gash along Dean's hairline, spilling crimson blood over his sooty, glistening face. "Dean, can you hear me?" John asked firmly, inspecting the cut.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. "I hit my head. I'm not deaf."

Sam sighed in relief at the familiar snark. "Are you okay?" he asked, wincing inwardly when he realized the idiocy of the question.

His dad was already helping Dean to a sitting position as Dean cracked his eyes open with a smirk. "Yeah, me'n those pink elephants dancing around the room'll be just fine."

"Cut it out, Dean," John ordered.

"Yessir," came the expected, mumbled reply.

"Now, why the hell did you use so much damn lighter fluid?" John demanded sharply, hauling Dean to his feet. The latter stumbled and braced himself against the wall.

When Dean didn't reply, Sam jumped in, not prepared to let his brother pay for his mistake twice. "He didn't. I did."

The oldest Winchester rounded on the youngest, his eyes glittering with fury. "What the hell were you thinking, Sam?" His voice seemed to be bordering on both anger and exasperation. "That might have blown up the whole house! I would hope that if I've taught you anything, it's the value of being careful."

"Sorry, Dad," Sam muttered, turning his eyes back to Dean. John had let go of his son in order to fully face Sam during the reprimand, and Dean was still leaning heavily against the wall with his head rolled back and his eyes closed. His left hand was curled around his stomach, which had surely made contact with the floor along with his head, while his right hand was pressed flat against the wall behind him. From the way he was cautiously trying to steady himself, it was clear that his head was swimming from the blow.

Sam glanced back at his dad, who had followed Sam's gaze to his other son. Heaving a sigh, he pulled his car keys from his pocket with a loud jangle. "All right, I'm going to go pull the car around to the house. You get Dean to the front door. I'll meet you there."

And with that, John was striding away quickly. Sam turned back to look at Dean and couldn't help but frown at the amount of blood coating his face. "Dean?" he asked tentatively.

"Yeah, Sam, I'm fine," the latter mumbled. "Don't worry about it."

"But—"

"I said, don't worry about it."

A moment of silence passed, and Dean didn't seem to want to move from his spot.

"Dean… I'm sorry."

Sam watched with a surge of guilt as the twenty-two year old blinked his eyes open and focused on Sam. "How many times do I have to tell you not to worry about it? Look, you wanna make up for it, just do one thing for me." Sam nodded, listening. "Don't ever use that much lighter fluid again." Dean smirked, but there was a seriousness in his eyes that Sam rarely saw. "It doesn't take much to start a fire, Sam."

Biting his lip, Sam nodded and glanced away. He couldn't look at his brother's bloody face anymore. He couldn't do this anymore. "Maybe it'd be better if I just stopped coming on hunts," he offered hopefully.

Dean snorted. "Stopped hunting? Nah, as much of a nuisance as you are, we wouldn't be able to hunt without the brains and the big puppy-dog eyes."

Sam felt a spark of indignant anger well within him at the jest. "I'm serious, Dean," replied firmly, glaring at the charred basement as if it had done him some great offense. "I want out. You _know_ I want out." Unconsciously, he reached a hand into his pocket and fingered the folded envelope, his heart picking up its pace.

"Yeah," Dean sighed heavily, knowledgeably. His eyes drifted over to his little brother again, deep and thoughtful. "Just… be careful. Dad's not gonna like it." Sam glanced up at his older brother with a frown and a questioning look. But Dean's only reply was, "It doesn't take much to start a fire."

At the time, Sam wasn't sure what he meant by that. But as he helped Dean out to the car, still playing with the envelope in his pocket, he kept the sentiment in his mind.

* * *

It was a week later that he had finally gathered up the courage to open the envelope, fear and anticipation and nervousness twisting his stomach into knots. But the letter started with "Congratulations." And he had to read that first word a full five times before it sunk in. Nobody got congratulated for not getting into college. A rush of fierce joy like he had never known spread through him, and he felt his body surging with adrenaline and confidence. 

And that was when he told his dad and brother that he'd gotten into Stanford.

Most normal families would perhaps hug him, congratulate him, thump him on the back, or even _smile_. His family did none of those things.

John merely laughed and told him that he wasn't going to college and that the application fee had been a waste of his money, and he should be more frugal in the future. Dean merely stared at the kitchen table with a small nod of his still-healing head before exiting the room.

Graduation passed with a half-hearted pat on the back and a distracted "good job, kiddo." Nobody mentioned Stanford.

Summer passed with tension, more knots in his stomach, and a couple of ravenous werewolves. Nobody mentioned Stanford.

But fall was approaching awfully fast, and Sam knew he'd have to tell them, and goddammit, he finally knew the truth of Dean's words when he told his father that he would be attending Stanford University in a few weeks' time.

* * *

"You take one step out that door and you don't ever come back, do you hear me?" John shouted. "No son of mine is going to abandon his family!" 

"_Fine!_" Sam bellowed right back, righteous anger surging through his veins. "Then I don't want to be your son, you bastard!"

"GET OUT!" John roared, his eyes wild with fury. Sam found that his hands were starting to ache from being clenched so tightly into fists. "I want you out of this house!"

"Good!" Sam shouted right back. "I'm gone!"

He dashed up the stairs two at a time, trying to ignore Dean, who was hovering in the next room listening to every word of the argument. Arriving in his room, he threw all of his belongings haphazardly into a duffel bag and stood next to his bed, taking a few deep, steadying breaths to calm himself down. His gaze fell upon the letter from Stanford, folded neatly in the envelope and sitting innocently on the desk. Striding over, he pulled it out and glanced at the paragraphs that he'd read at least fifty times that summer, the ones that breathed freedom into his lungs.

Dean had been right. All it took to start the raging wildfire of the Winchester blowout was that piece of paper, simple and white. It was the spark that had caught flame. And now Sam would be leaving.

Through his seething anger, a vindictive pleasure arose. Dean's words echoed in his head, and he knew them to be true—but he also knew that some fires needed to be stoked, needed to happen. And because of this one, because of that little spark of the acceptance letter—that little bit of lighter fluid—Sam was leaving. He was done hunting.

Yet there remained an inexplicable twinge of sadness amid his other raging emotions. Bending over to shove the rest of his books into his duffle bag, Sam discovered his old copy of Macbeth. He flipped through it for a brief moment, remembering how he had spotted Dean reading it surreptitiously. He'd never told Dean (as he would probably deny any type of reading for enjoyment), but he knew that his brother liked the book.

Zipping up his duffel bag, Sam tossed the book onto the stiff mattress of Dean's bed and hurried back down the stairs.

* * *

He'd believed his brother's words when he'd practically blown up the slave master's house with too much lighter fluid; he'd known that his brother had a point when he'd had that huge fight with his dad; but he finally understood the horrible truth that night as he watched the love of his life burn to death on the ceiling above him. 

Fate was not without a sense of cruel irony.

Where Sam had once believed the acceptance letter to be his ticket out of hunting, his little bit of lighter fluid that started the fire of freedom—now it was nothing but a death sentence, a condemnation to pain and guilt and destruction. It was that stupid letter that had caused the chain reaction of Sam going to Stanford in the first place; of Sam meeting Jess; of Jess bursting into flames like a sick birthday candle. Fate mocked him.

Her eyes glistened, filled with pain; her face was pale and stricken; her stomach was gutted, and the blood dripped onto him, and Sam couldn't think of a time when he had been sorrier to have accepted that damn letter. He watched her body burn above him, and he knew that it really hadn't taken much to start that fire—that he, himself, as good as started it. His brother's words from four years ago came back to haunt him that night.

"A little lighter fluid goes a long way."

And Sam understood the truth of it.

But then Dean was there, had come to save him from the flames, and the stench of death slowly rinsed away.


	10. Rule 10

**A/N:** Wow, I can't believe this story is coming to a close. There will be a short epilogue after this, but this is the last chapter. I want to thank everyone who took the time to read and/or review this. You've all been wonderfully kind. Also, a couple notes: I apologize to anyone who is a fan of country music—please don't get offended by Dean's comments about it in this chapter. Also, there are lines in this chapter that are taken directly from the Pilot, and to reiterate my initial disclaimer, I do not lay claim to them.

Okay, that was long enough. Here's the last chapter! Stop by in a couple of days for the epilogue.

* * *

_Rule Ten: Driver picks the music._

The road was slightly bumpy, jarring the Impala as it sped down the gravelly country road. Fields of corn rolled by outside the window, but twenty-six year old Dean was hardly paying attention to the abysmal scenery. Aside from the occasional jibe that maybe there was a haunted cow wandering around out there, his attention was wholly focused on the indescribably horrific sound emitting from the car at that time. Surely it was worse than the screech of a banshee, worse still than the ominous crackle of EMF on a tape…

"Garth Brooks?" Dean demanded finally with a withering glare towards the radio. "Of all the things to listen to… you choose Garth Brooks?"

Dean watched expectantly as his father rolled his eyes towards him, an amused frown tugging at the gray stubble on his chin. "Yes, Dean," he replied in an exasperated voice. "I happen to _like_ Garth Brooks."

"Man," Dean whined, turning his gaze out the window, hoping to perhaps spot a demon cow—anything to get the horrible sound out of his ears. "What kind of radio station would do this to people? It's torture."

"It's country music," John pointed out.

There was a pause. "I'd rather get my teeth pulled by a possessed orthodontist."

John chuckled as he maneuvered the car down the winding road. "Well, if you want, we can turn around and see if that guy's still hanging around with a drill. Maybe a couple of pulled teeth would stop your complaining." Dean grumbled in reply. "And anyway, it's a well-known fact that the driver always picks the music."

"Hey, Dad?" Dean asked, turning around with a smirk. "Can I drive?"

"No."

That was all right, of course. Dean hadn't expected any other answer, thought it didn't stop him from asking. Truth be told, he didn't really want it any other way. It was familiar, this arrangement—one of the few things that had remained constant in his nomadic life. His father in the driver's seat; him riding shotgun. There was only one thing missing…

He chanced a quick glance to the barren backseat, which had been empty for the last four years.

For eighteen years, it had been the constant hierarchy of Winchester riding privileges. John was the driver, Dean rode shotgun, and Sam got stuck in the backseat. It was just the way things were, they way they'd always been. Yet four years ago that hierarchy had been disrupted by the departure of the lowest class, and while it didn't dislocate the two front seats, it did leave something of an empty hole to be gotten used to—that nagging voice behind them that was no more than an echo. Dean was still getting used to the silence. And it had been four years. Granted, he had known it would come before the disturbance occurred; he had seen that envelope from Stanford before Sam had managed to snatch it from their temporary mailbox. And he knew that the school would have to be run by baboons not to accept his brother.

That wasn't to say, of course, that Dean had never taken the driver's seat. There was the odd occasion when his dad was hurt and he had to drive; but that was to be expected. There were also the times when they researched in separate towns, like they had during the succubus incident, where Dean got the Impala and John took a taxi or a bus or (on one interesting occasion) stole a semi truck. Yet those times never felt quite right, him being the only rider in the car, and he always had to turn up the music to drown out the silence.

So, naturally, Dean liked things the way they were. He was finally getting used to the emptiness of the backseat, and he had always enjoyed the easy conversation that came in the front seat. Because—despite the formal, soldier-to-commander relationship they had when in hunter mode—when they were riding in the Impala, they were simply father and son.

Dean cringed when a particularly cruel country chorus came on over the radio, and he focused his gaze out the window again, this time startled to see that the cornfields were turning into a small town.

"You know, Dad, it occurs to me that we're not going in the direction of New Orleans," he spoke at last, that thought having been nagging at him for the past ten miles when he had first discovered that they were heading west, not south.

John nodded curtly, and Dean could see him slowly slipping into commander mode. "We have to make a stop."

Deciding not to press the issue, he merely stared curiously out the window as they pulled towards a building with a large red sign on it that read "Joe's Garage."

Slowing to a halt, John killed the engine. Dean raised his eyebrows at the building and then turned silently to his father.

"I helped out the guy whose son owns this place. He owes me a favor or two," John explained elusively, stepping out of the car. Dean followed suit, falling into step beside his dad as they entered the building.

"John!" came an ecstatic middle-aged voice, which was attached to a stooped man with flaming white hair and gnarled hands. The man was walking towards them from the building, and they all met halfway between the door to the building and the parking lot. The eldest Winchester smiled brilliantly and shook the man's hand firmly.

"It's good to see you, Rich," he greeted. "That your son?" He nodded towards a younger man who could be seen through the window of the building, possibly a few years older than Dean, with dark hair and shrewd, skeptical eyes.

Rich turned around briefly with a nod. "Yep, that's my boy, Joe. And this must be Dean?" he asked amiably, shaking Dean's hand as well. The latter smiled tightly and nodded, his patience waning as his perplexity grew.

"She ready to go?" John asked quietly, in that conspiratorial voice he often used when dealing with gun salesmen.

Rich grinned with an overzealous wink and waved a hand for them to follow. Leading them into a garage, he arrived at a rather large lump in the far corner and yanked the dirty sheet off of it. Dean gaped, nonplussed by the spectacle of the shining truck before them. Was it haunted? Had it perhaps been used to store dead bodies?

But John laughed, breaking Dean out of his bewildered thoughts, and he thumped Rich on the back with a low whistle. "Wow, she's in better condition than I expected."

The older man shrugged. "Hey, you saved my life. Least I can do is give her a couple new parts and a wax job."

"You don't know how much I appreciate this," John replied as Rich handed him a set of keys. Dean watched the exchange until his father slid into the driver's seat of the truck, running his hands over the wheel with a nod of approval.

They pulled the car out of the garage and into the parking lot, Dean still following along like a lost lamb despite his greatest efforts to understand what was going on. But he knew better than to question his father's motives in the presence of strangers.

At long last, Rich gave John another pat on the back, told him to take care and to drop by if he was ever in the area. John shook his hand and told him that he would. Dean leaned against the Impala, trying not to look like a sour teenager who had been left out of the loop of his friends' latest dating endeavors.

And then the older man had disappeared back into the garage, and John was leaning against the Impala next to Dean. There was a heavy, solemn look on his face—much different from the affable one that had been fixed on for Rich. His sigh was deep and resigned. Dean wasn't particularly fond of where this was all going.

"Listen, Dean," John began at last, running his fingers gently over the keys in his hands. "You're going to have to fly solo for this New Orleans job."

Dean felt his stomach drop down three inches. "What?"

Another sigh. "Remember those articles I gave you to glance over? The ones about that road in Jericho?"

"The one where the guys were going missing?" Dean confirmed. "In California?" he added as an afterthought.

John nodded. "That's the one." There was a slight pause. "I'm going to head over there while you check out the voodoo thing. That's why I got the truck. I figured it'd be better for us to cover more ground."

Dean frowned. They'd gone on separate hunts a couple of times before, but never in different states. "Can't Jericho wait?"

John's face hardened almost imperceptibly, and Dean knew he'd get nowhere. "I wasn't asking you to do the New Orleans job. That was an order."

"But Dad—"

"That was an order," he repeated more firmly.

Dean nodded. "Yes Sir."

"Good. I have a couple of things I need to check out. We'll work more quickly this way, get two jobs done at once. Keep in touch and we'll meet up when we're both done," the eldest Winchester commanded, rubbing thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin, a faraway look in his eyes.

Trying to hide his disappointment, Dean dug his hands into the pockets of his brown leather jacket and looked away. His fingers brushed something hard and square. "Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah?"

With a smirk, he pulled the cassette tape from his pocket and tossed it into the air. John caught it deftly.

"Figured you could use some decent music in that monster truck of yours."

John chuckled. "Thanks, Dean."

And as his father drove off in the large black truck, Dean slid into the driver's seat. But with nobody riding shotgun and nobody in the back, it simply didn't feel right.

* * *

The static was loud as it crackled in his ear. "Dean, something is starting to happen. I think it's serious. I need to try to figure out what's going on." There was some garbled, inaudible nonsense as more static entered the phone. "Be very careful. Dean, we're all in danger." 

Suppressing a heavy sigh, Dean flipped the cell phone shut and stuck it in his pocket. He wasn't sure why he felt inclined to keep listening to the message over and over. Perhaps it was the comfort of hearing his father's voice, even though his words were far from comforting.

Stepping out of his corner in the gas station, Dean dumped the food on the counter and pulled out a fake credit card to pay for the stuff. A glance out the window behind him told him that Sam was rifling through something in the passenger seat. Typical… sometimes the boy just couldn't sit still.

It was good having him back; Dean wasn't going to deny that. After three weeks finishing the voodoo thing in New Orleans, he'd given his dad a few calls to no avail. And then he'd gotten that voicemail, which had sliced through him like a hunting knife through butter. It hadn't taken him long to decide where he needed to go… the silence of the empty Impala was even more deafening when he would be alone indefinitely. The hierarchy just didn't work that way, with Dean alone in the front seat calling all the shots with no father to ask for orders. Frankly, it freaked the hell out of him.

So he'd gone to Stanford, blasting music all the way there to drown out the silence. And finally things were starting to fall a little bit back to normal… well, if 'normal' was a word that could ever describe the Winchesters. Two Winchesters in a car, ranked from oldest to youngest, was better than a lost, confused, sole Winchester trying to make decisions on his own with no commander to guide him. He'd had to take charge; take the driver's seat, which felt different though he had sat in it before.

Dean took a long moment to look at Sam through the window before he exited the gas station, feeling guilty at his happiness that Sam was with him—especially because he knew that Sam would be leaving again come Monday. As he arrived at the car, Dean spotted his box of cassettes in Sam's lap as the younger Winchester dug through it. Dean made his presence known by waving the food he'd gotten. "Hey, you want some breakfast?"

"No thanks," Sam replied with a glance at the food. "So how'd you pay for that stuff? You and Dad still running credit card scams?"

Dean smirked, endlessly amused and perplexed by his brother's honest streak. He had no idea where the kid got it from. Not Dean, that was for sure. "Yeah, well… hunting ain't exactly a pro-ball career. Besides, all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards," he jested.

They talked about the cards for another minute or two as Dean slid back into the driver's seat. He was pleased to find that it had become more comfortable behind the wheel when Sam was in the passenger seat. Of course, he'd never tell his kid brother that.

"I swear man; you gotta update your cassette-tape collection."

That sure caught Dean's attention. "Why?"

Sam gave him a slightly incredulous look. "Well, for one, they're cassette tapes. And two—" The beanpole of a Winchester pulled out a couple of tapes, reading the sides. "Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica? It's the greatest hits of mullet rock."

Not offended in the least, Dean grabbed a cassette from his little brother's hand and popped it into the player. There were a couple of things about Sam that he'd never understand—one of them being his taste in music. Dean wasn't quite sure why neither of his family members had particularly good taste. He supposed he'd gotten all of the music genes. At any rate, his father's easy words strolled through his head. "House rules, Sammy. Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole."

AC/DC began blasting through the sound system, and Dean puzzled over that momentarily, seeing as he had grabbed the tape labeled Metallica from Sam. Must have mixed them up. Didn't matter, though; it was all good music, in Dean's opinion. And anyway, John had used the "house rules" against him in the past. Dean was just passing on a bit of Winchester Etiquette 101.

When he heard Sam speaking over "Back in Black," Dean pulled himself out of his thoughts. "You know, Sammy is a chubby 12-year-old. It's Sam, okay?"

Dean couldn't stop the smirk on his face. Yeah, Sam had been telling him that for years. Didn't mean he had to listen to the kid. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you. The music's too loud."

Things had definitely changed, that was for sure. Things had been changing since his Dad had sent him to New Orleans—since Sam had left for Stanford—hell, things had been changing since his mother's death that fateful November night. The Winchester lifestyle was all about change; changing from one city to the next, a demon to a spirit to an Agropelter; accepting new things and letting other things go. Things changed, and he'd just have to get used to it.

But right now, Dean was in the driver's seat. Sam sat shotgun. And he didn't want that to change any time soon.

This, he knew, was impossible. Yet Sam seemed to adapt to change better than him. He'd turned out better, and that was what mattered. Maybe Dean was a little screwed up, but the one thing he did well—other than hunting—was being an older brother. And seeing a well-adjusted Sam (with a hot girlfriend, to boot) by his side told him that he had to have done something right, had to have taught his little brother something important about life in his eighteen years spent with the kid.

They were about ten miles from Jericho when "Shoot to Thrill" came on.

Dean wasn't sure how good of a person he was, but at least he was one hell of a brother. If there was one thing he could be proud of, it was Sam.

The latter nodded towards the radio with an exasperated look on his face. "You know, we're both going to go deaf soon."

Dean's response was to turn up the music.


	11. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

_Rule Eleven: Fathers shall not be put to death for their children, nor children put to death for their fathers; each is to die for his own sins._

The blood was still warm on his face, but slowly he felt it drying into crusted rivers running down his cheeks. He could still feel the death-grip of his youngest son on his jacket; could still hear the grunted acquiescence of his departure from his eldest. But mostly, as he drove down the dark Chicago street in his black truck, his vision was overcome by the sight of his haunted, bloodied, defeated boys. And that begged the question that he never managed to run far enough away from:

_Have I done this to them?_

There were times when he wondered how they might have turned out had he never taken the path he chose after Mary's death. If he could have ignored the signs, told himself that it was just a normal fire. If Sam would be normal. If Dean would be happy.

If he would be a good father.

More to drown out his thoughts—_That Meg girl lured them into danger just to get to me, they could have died, a trap set for me, this is all my fault, sins of the father_—than for any desire to listen to music, John fumbled with the radio dial until a country station crackled through the stifling air inside the truck. His headache (from being used as a piñata for shadow demons) intensified.

_Am I a bad father?_

Slowing as he approached a red light, John glanced left and right to find the street completely deserted. Sighing, he reached over into the glove compartment for something with which he might wipe the drying blood from his face. What his gnarled fingers latched onto was small, square, and plastic. He grunted in amusement as he read the side of the tape: AC/DC—the tape Dean had given him months ago, which he had stashed in the glove compartment and forgotten about.

As he waited for the light to change, John pulled out the cassette and popped it into the player. A relatively mellow song started playing, and while John didn't bother keeping up-to-date on Dean's taste in music, he knew that it wasn't AC/DC.

_"New blood joins this earth_

_And quickly he's subdued_

_Through constant pain disgrace_

_The young boy learns their rules." _

The song did nothing to augment his headache, so he left it on as the light turned green and he sped down the street, torn between wanting desperately to get away from Chicago and turn around to find his sons. To apologize for being a bad father. For leading them into danger over and over again for the past twenty-two years.

But the thing that made his gut churn was that he didn't regret it; and were he given the chance to go back and do things again, he'd make all the same decisions. The fact was simply that there was darkness and evil in the world; the Winchesters needed to be there to destroy it. And he desperately needed to find Mary's killer. It had grown to an insatiable hunger, ripping at him with his every move and thought.

Yes, he would make all the same decisions. His boys needed to be prepared; perhaps they had missed a few vital life lessons along the way, but they sure learned a hell of a lot about defending themselves.

_Does that make me a bad father?_

He wound the truck through several more side-streets as he pulled away from the city and onto a long stretch of highway.

_"He's battled constantly _

_This fight he cannot win."_

Everything he had ever done had been to protect his boys. How could it have harmed them in any way?

How could Sam look so beaten? How could Dean looks so unhappy?

How had he done this to his sons?

How could they ever forgive him?

_"A tired man they see no longer cares _

_The old man then prepares _

_To die regretfully _

_That old man here is me."_

He had taught them many things indeed. Well, he had taught Dean many things, at least—Sam hardly listened enough to learn from him. But he understood the roundabout way he had of reaching his youngest. He couldn't get to him directly, but everything he'd taught Dean had its way of finding Sam. Sam listened to Dean. And Dean listened to John.

He hoped he had taught Dean well.

There were many unorthodox things he'd taught Dean (and, transitively, Sam). As he peeled down the highway, he made a mental list of some of the more unusual or helpful ones.

1. We do what we do and we shut up about it.

2. Shoot first, ask questions later.

3. Rock salt and table salt are virtually interchangeable.

4. Fifty push-ups a day keeps the digging cramps at bay.

5. Always know what kind of monster you're dealing with.

6. Lose at least one game of pool before going for the kill.

7. Keep a knife at the ready, no matter where you are.

8. Know when you're being watched and who's watching you.

9. A little lighter fluid goes a long way.

10. Driver picks the music.

John grinned wryly at the thought of that last one. He wondered if Dean had passed that information onto Sam yet. Knowing his sons, he probably had. He silently apologized to his youngest for the music selection.

But rather than lifting his spirits, the list only dampened them. Those were the kinds of things he had taught his sons. How many of those had anything to do with life? Or, at least, life as John had once known it, before Mary… Did his sons adjust well when they came into contact with aspects of "normal" life? Why should any father have to ask that question? God, did he even _know_ his sons?

_"What I've felt _

_What I've known _

_Never shined through in what I've shown _

_Never be _

_Never see _

_Won't see what might have been."_

But he did know his sons. Sam was an honest, hot-headed, intelligent boy who was skillful in combat with a knife and wanted to be a lawyer. Dean was a cocky, lonely, guns-blazing smartass who listened to rock music and missed his mother.

He knew his boys. He knew them enough to know that he was not their favorite person right now. He only hoped that they would someday understand how very, very sorry he was. He had taught them a great many things; yet there were even more things that he had failed to teach them. He had made so many mistakes. He knew that he was not a good father. And he was sorry.

_"Never free _

_Never me _

_So I dub thee Unforgiven."_

He wished he could have been a better father.

_Forgive me, boys._

**THE END**


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